


Sinner's Angel

by NishkaGray



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-10 08:36:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3283943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NishkaGray/pseuds/NishkaGray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gadreel had spent millions of years diving through depths of despair and regret, but for a single moment, in Sam Winchester’s eyes, he’d been a hero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  **Author Notes:**   
>  First, I have to thank my artist [Jayi](http://jayi.livejournal.com/) who is immensely gifted and has been endlessly patient with my inability to perform under pressure. I did the best I could to do her art justice, and her approval, in the end, is the greatest award I could’ve gotten. She has a [tumblr blog](http://nonexistenz.tumblr.com/) everyone should go check out because it's literally a treasure chest of Sadreel fan art and it helped inspire some additional scenes in the fic.   
> 
> 
> The fic itself might have been written by me, but an entire team of people brought it to life.  
> Callie was the first to say ‘It’s good. I liked it.’ This was also the first time, since entering RBB, that I felt a measure of confidence in the story I was trying to tell, so I would like to thank her, from the bottom of my heart, for that boost I sorely needed.  
> I’d like to thank my dialogue tyrant Tori, who never hesitates to tell me when I’m going on for too long about nothing. She was the force behind my Dean voice and it wouldn’t exist without her.  
> I’d also like to thank Marci, who patiently plowed through my awkward sentence formation and my lack of commas, returning a draft that was better and sharper than I could have made it on my own.  
> Myri, who took the final draft and peeled it apart, showing me layers I didn’t even know were there. She gave the story a new life, provided the title I desperately needed, and was the reason I finally got to say, ‘Hey, I did a good job with this.’  
> And last but not least, my Editor Shay who meticulously did the final read through and pronounced the fic ready for publishing.  
> English being my second language, my confidence in my writing has always been tentative at best. Without these excellent people, many of which I’m honored to call friends, I never would have had the nerve to enter in the first place. They’ve been with me every step of the way and I appreciate them more than English language has the words to describe.
> 
>   
> **Disclaimer** : You may not copy, reproduce, distribute, publish, display, perform, modify, create derivative works, transmit, or in any way exploit any of my content, nor may you distribute any part of this content over any network, including a local area network, sell or offer it for sale, or use such content to construct any kind of database.

His name was Joshua Carter, son of late Emily and Ethan Carter, brother to Jayne, once Carter, now Bradshaw. An unmarried man in his mid-thirties, with no significant income, no valuable belongings and no friends that would miss him. His sister Jayne had told her friends and her husband’s family that she had no living relatives. In her mind, her brother had died a long time ago, leaving in his place a stranger who drank too much and did not care whether he lived or died. For the most part, she was right. Joshua, called Josh by his acquaintances and customers, did drink too much and had been for some time. When it came to life or death though, she was very much wrong. Josh wanted to die.

In the end, it was this desire which drew Gadreel to him. Not the desire of those who prayed to be useful in Heaven’s grand plan, or those who who were seeking a spiritual experience, but the utter desperation of a man who had run out of options and still hesitated to commit that last and ultimate sin of taking his own life. Gadreel could offer very little, and promise even less. Being a vessel for one of the first fallen angels was not something many would aspire to, no matter how devout. Josh did not care. His Catholic upbringing had consisted of a baptism, a sporadic church attendance, and a puritanical grandmother. The message he took away was warped, filled with eternal hellfire and none of the love. He set rules for himself which he then broke, as many alcoholics tend to do. He lied, he cheated and stole, he killed in the service of his country, and in the end, if his cowardice disguised as unwillingness to commit yet another sin had not prevented him from it, he would have committed suicide as well.  
His one single request was simple on the surface. To be at peace.

Gadreel readily promised him peace and more. Only those memories which the man wanted to keep. An eternity of being free from his failures and mistakes. When and if Gadreel decided to return, a place for the man’s soul in the kingdom of Heaven.

This is how one of the first fallen angels found himself encased in flesh and bone, kneeling on the filthy barroom basement floor. Not through the faith of the devout or the sacrifice of the pious, but through the depths of despair of a man who had nothing left to live for.

It was strangely fitting.

\--

He spent the first night on the roof of the bar, watching the stars. He let himself feel the chilly wind against unfamiliar skin, the rough surface that scraped against his shoulder blades where his wings burned with a dull and sickening pulse. Lucifer had called humans filthy creatures, numb to the truth and lacking in beauty. To some extent, Gadreel had agreed. The world they had created after being expelled from the Garden of Heaven was a filthy world. They walked through a valley of death from the moment of conception, rotting slowly from the inside out. Their air was thick with exhaust and stench of burnt oil. Their stars were dull from pollution. Their earth was torn and conquered and weeping. If he let himself listen carefully, all he could hear were the demands of the vain and the cries of the lost.

And yet, they were free in a way he had never been. They built this broken world with their torn hands, built it on failure and sin and loss, and it thrived. There was a beauty in it Lucifer could never recognize, never understand. In Heaven’s prison, Gadreel had been a stain on the purity of his Brothers and Sisters, a shameful example that most preferred to forget. Here, on earth, none of that mattered. He could build something, he could become someone. A new world had opened up around him and he swore that he would not let this new life go to waste.

\--

Dean Winchester’s call caught him off guard.

He stood still, undecided, hot pavement burning through the soles of his vessel’s worn sneakers. The Righteous Man, archangel Michael’s one true vessel, praying for help. Asking for a favor and offering one in return. Sounding desperate.

Gadreel had not chosen a destination quite yet. He’d had some vague and unexplained need to see the wonders humans had created during the millions of years he had spent imprisoned. His own knowledge of such things was limited. Instead, he’d tapped into his vessel’s cognition and found misty recollections of ancient structures, impressive towers and crumbling castles. Flat, colorless memories, no doubt gathered from books and movies, but they had sparked his curiosity. If he stood in the grand shadow of Craigmillar, would he smell the fires of the Anglo-Scottish wars? If he touched the Great Pyramid of Khufu, would he see the blood and tears of the generations that built it? There was so much to see, so much to explore, he could spend centuries wandering this world and never succumb to boredom.

He’d never even considered becoming involved in the eternal struggles of Heaven. His Brothers and Sisters did not need him. More so, they did not want him. And Dean Winchester was Heaven’s servant.

Wherever this man was, danger would soon find him. The safest place was no doubt as far away as the limited modes of human travel would allow.

“Hell, it’s no secret that we haven’t always seen eye to eye.”

Gadreel remembered similar words, promises made that were later broken. How he had yearned for approval back then, especially from God’s favorite, His most beautiful. He felt the warmth of the sun on his face and wondered if this is what it meant, to place the mission above everything.

“But you know that I am good for my word.”

The scales were tipping again. This time, he could be the one to salvage something from the chaos. He could be something better, something greater. Maybe not in Father’s eyes or in the eyes of Heaven, but in the eyes of these imperfect creatures, he could be something more than an angel who let the serpent in.

\--

“You want to help? Start with a name.”

It should not have been a surprise, to wake in the ring of holy fire, trapped and weaker than he’d been. He had forgotten, over the long centuries of his imprisonment, how distrustful human beings could be. There were no other angels present and still, his mouth nearly formed a lie. It was discouraging. He could not even take one small step on the path of righteousness without stumbling.

“Gadreel,” he said, rising slowly to one knee.

Dean’s face showed no recognition and he took a small comfort from it, for the time being.

“All right, Gadreel. How do I know you’re not hunting me or Castiel like the other angels.”  
“Oh, I am sure there are many angels who are. Many more are on their way here, most likely.”  
“How do you know that?”  
“You put out an open prayer like that...”

A foolish thing to do. He had heard many whispers about Dean Winchester over the years, calling him many things, yet he had never heard him called foolish.

“I must really be desperate,” the man finished his thought.

Gadreel got to his feet, grateful that the ring of fire was spacious. He did not feel too steady on his feet any more and whatever assistance Dean Winchester needed, it would probably require all the strength that Gadreel had left.

“Believe it or not, some of us still believe in our mission,” he said, “Circumstances have prevented me from answering prayers in the past. I intend to remedy this now.”

Dean studied him for a few moments as if looking for falsehood.

Gadreel steadily held his gaze. For once, he had nothing to hide.

“You said you were hurt during the fall,” Dean said finally.  
“I was,” Gadreel said, fighting a sigh of relief, “Entangling with my brother back there did me no favors. But what strength I have left, I offer to you.”

\--

He should have guessed.

He knew the history, he’d heard the rumors. Lucifer stepping back into the world did not go unnoticed by anyone, least of all him. He had trembled in his prison the entire time, torn between the urge to hide and the urge to pray, his dreams supplying false hopes of freedom gained at the hands of the one who had led him there in the first place. The tales of Dean Winchester’s brother, the Boy with the Demon Blood and Lucifer’s true vessel, had traveled swiftly, even to the far corners of Heaven.

The Boy with the Demon Blood had become the Boy who Saved the World, locking Lucifer back in the Cage with the same determination he’d once used to let him out. From Damned to a Martyr to a Hero in thirty years, a pitiful third of a human lifetime.

In the hospital bed. Dying. Eyelids so pale they seemed translucent, the delicate cobweb of veins giving them a bluish, unnatural hue. Cheekbones sharp above the hollow cheeks, heart beating erratically, fighting even in his last moments.

“You still able to cure things after the fall?”

He should have guessed and yet he hadn’t. For the love of a brother, the Winchesters have done the impossible more than once.

“Yes, I should be, but... he is so weak.”

Lucifer’s vessel. Even if Dean had never spoken his name, if Gadreel had come upon him with no prior knowledge, he would have recognized the vessel meant for God’s favorite. He would have known him by the immaculate contraption of blood and flesh and bone, by the loveliness of his features. Lucifer’s terrible and sharp beauty could not be contained by anything less.

The ring of a cell phone interrupted his train of thought. Dean answered it and stepped outside, the phone pressed to his ear.

Gadreel carefully placed his hand on the pale forehead, acknowledging and discarding the uneasy feeling of committing a sacrilege. He fed a small amount of strength into the weak body, enough so it can keep fighting. Then he assessed the damage, immediately knowing he would have to prioritize. Certain organs would continue to function despite the damage. It was the more delicate ones he needed to focus on, the brain and the lungs and the heart.

Sam was very weak, his body exhausted from fighting the inevitable.

Gadreel could do this. It would take time and effort and it would postpone his own recovery, but he could save this one life.

The door opened again, the glint of the angel blade breaking his concentration.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Dean advanced on him with the weapon and Gadreel stepped back and away from the hospital bed, both hands raised in a placating gesture.  
“You did not ask. You asked for my name and I gave it freely.”

“Lucifer’s pet? One of his rebellious angels? You don’t think this was a detail you maybe should’ve mentioned without being asked?”

It was an effort not to measure the distance to the door, not to plan an escape route.  
“I made a mistake.”

The man circled him with slow, calculated grace, placing himself in between Gadreel and Sam. The blade was steady in his hand. He sounded furious.  
“Dooming the entire human kind? This is what you call a mistake?”  
“I have spent millennia imprisoned for my crime and I have done nothing but contemplate the steps that led me there. Lucifer is my brother. I loved him as you love your own.”  
“Do not compare me and Sam to your sick and twisted family, we’re nothing like you.”  
“My brother begged for my help. He lied to me and left me to rot in Heaven’s prison. I had no ill intent. I did what I did out of love. As much as our situations differ, I believe this is something you can relate to.”  
“And that love brought you here? So you can put your hands on Lucifer’s vessel?”  
“No. No, I wanted--“

Redemption. Forgiveness. All those things he was not allowed to have.

“I wanted to be on the right side of history for once. You had been deemed Righteous by God Himself, and when I heard your prayer I thought-- this could be my only chance. To do the right thing.”  
“Castiel doesn’t trust you.”  
“Castiel does not know me. Castiel knows of me, the same way I knew of you before I came here. You have left many dead angels in your wake. Castiel himself had rebelled against Heaven. I knew my life would be in danger if I answered your prayer, and yet I did not hesitate and I did not lie to you.”

He could see the man’s fury waning and pressed on,  
“Your brother is dying, healing him will take time and strength I can ill spare. I ask for nothing in return.”  
“You just wanna do the right thing,” Dean said, his tone mocking.  
“I have been given a second chance. Against all odds. Not many men can recognize the value of this, but I believe you might. What else are second chances for, but for doing the right thing?”  
“So, you’re just gonna heal Sam and you want nothing. Nothing at all.”  
“Healing him will leave me weaker than I am now. I will not be able to protect myself from others. A safe place to stay and time to recover is all I require.”  
“If you’re lying to me--“  
“I am not. I swear, I am not.”  
“--I will cut you in so many pieces Lucifer won’t recognize you.”  
“I understand.”

Dean tucked the knife away and stepped back.  
“Fine. Get to healing then.”

\--

There was so much damage.

He started with all those places that were deprived of oxygen, reconnecting all that was torn and lost. There would be some memory holes, small ones. If he was stronger he would try and repair those too but he was weak and time was of the essence. It was exhausting, delicate work, and the presence of Dean Winchester fidgeting in the corner was not making it easier.

By the time he could move on to the lungs he was coated in sweat, his vessel recognizing the strain. He would have to rest. Only for a little while.

“He may wake soon,” he said.  
“Is it done?”  
“No, it is not done. There is a lot of damage. It will take days, maybe weeks. But he will live long enough now, for the rest to take place.”  
“Why? Why is it taking so long? I’ve seen angel mojo at work before, they heal, they move on.”  
“You brother was not injured by any natural means. His body is self destructing through no influence that I could find or remove. It will take time to coax it back in the natural direction.”

The floor trembled under their feet and Gadreel grabbed the bed rail.

“One of yours?” Dean said, the angel blade already clutched in his hand.

His connection to his brothers and sisters was still full of static, but even without it, he was sure.  
“Trying to secure a vessel. We need to move.”  
“Can we? Can we move him?”

If it were any other human being, Gadreel would say no. But Sam, the boy who had survived Lucifer’s cage, was still fighting. He was still drawing strength from somewhere.  
“Very carefully.”

Dean looked around the hospital room as if searching for something. Gadreel glanced around as well, for the first time noticing the slickness of the floors that were scrubbed too often and the heavy stench of sickness that had nothing to do with Sam Winchester. His hands still gripped the rail, only now - no longer distracted - he could feel the presence of those who had died in this place, in that same bed, on that same pillow where Sam’s head rested. His skin prickled uncomfortably, reminding him that this was one of those aspects of humanity he wanted nothing to do with.

“I’ll just have to carry him,” Dean said.  
“You are not strong enough.”  
“Screw you.”

Gadreel’s hands tightened, the metal pressing into the flesh of his fingers. If there was one trait he vehemently despised, it was pride. He truly hoped that Dean’s attitude stemmed from the concern for his brother, rather than some perceived insult to his physical strength. This was hardly the time for something so petty.

Sam’s eyelids fluttered.

“Sam?” Dean said, one hand grabbing his brother’s shoulder, “Sammy?”

How easily the man pushed all of his anger under wraps when calling his brother’s name. Even so, the thinly veiled panic in his tone was obvious. It must have been to Sam, too, because his fingers twitched, as if attempting to meet Dean’s grip with one of his own.

“My Brothers and Sisters are not here for him. They will seek you out first, and I can not protect you both.”

Sam blinked a few times, tears pooling under his eyes, trailing over pale temples. He groaned softly.

“Sammy? Hey man, can you hear me?”

His eyes opened.


	2. Chapter 2

“... carry him.”  
“You are not strong enough.”  
“Screw you.”

Dean’s high pitched fury laced with panic was the first thing to break through. Which was surprisingly comforting. It was the same tone of voice that had brought Sam back around when he fell out of a tree and knocked himself out for the first time. The last tone of voice he’d heard before the world went black at Cold Oak. Over the years he’d been knocked out more times than he could count, but one thing never changed. The warmth of Dean’s hand on his shoulder and the panic in his voice.

“Sam? Sammy?”

He opened his mouth to tell him to stop worrying and that he was fine, but no words actually made their way out. He was fine, wasn’t he? He had to be. He could hear, he could feel the steadily rising pain in his temples, his chest. He felt broken all over. The pain was faintly comforting too. Pain, he knew. He could do pain.

“... not here for him. They will seek you out first, and I cannot protect you both.”

That was an unfamiliar voice. Sam tried opening his eyes and the pain in his temples tripled. His nose clogged, his eyes watered. His forehead felt full of broken glass. He’d gotten hit in the back of the head with a steel pipe once and this was infinitely worse. He wanted the steel pipe back. Worse, he couldn’t remember how it happened. A hunt gone wrong?

Light hit his eyes and he finally managed a sound, more of a groan than anything else. He felt tears sliding down his temples from the pain and even that tiny bit of pressure was agony.

“Sammy? Hey man, can you hear me?”

Sam wanted to smack him. If he could actually move he probably would have. Instead he blinked a few times, trying to get the moisture out of his eyes. Tried to lift his arm and managed only a faint twitch of fingers. What the fuck happened? Did he get crushed by a semi?

“We gotta get you out of here, ok?”  
Dean was taking the blanket off, chucking it in the corner, then tucking the sheet around him.  
“I know you can’t walk right now but I’ve got someone to carry you.”

Carry him? From where? To where? What the fuck was going on?

“You drop him and I’m gonna put this blade up your ass.”  
“I will not drop him.”  
“The parking garage. If I’m not there before you, just stay put and try and not get killed.”

The bed under him shook violently and Sam groaned again, feeling as if all of his bones shifted in a wrong direction.

“I am sorry Sam, this will hurt,” the unfamiliar voice said.

Arms snuck under his knees and shoulders and lifted him up. He cried out, the effort ripping a fiery line down his throat. His fingers weakly scrambled for purchase against unfamiliar leather. How could he feel this much pain and still be alive?

“I am sorry,” the voice said again.

They were moving. He was being carried and they were moving and it was like being on board of a ship during the storm of the century. Sam was going to throw up.  
His cheek was pressed against the man’s leather jacket but he could see the room moving around him, the splintered doorway as they stepped through. Out in the hallway the noise was deafening.

It was a hospital, Dean had brought him to a hospital. How badly was he hurt for Dean to actually bring him here? He could count, on the fingers of one hand, the times either one of them had needed to be hospitalized. The last memory he could readily recall involved him almost dying.

The floor shook under them again and his rescuer stumbled slightly. White and blue scrubs rushed past them. Nurses? Doctors? They were running, their panic obvious. They weren’t supposed to do that, were they? Weren’t they supposed to be the ones who stay calm in crisis situations? Screams echoed against the walls and he wanted to scream with them. The fluorescent ceiling lights exploded, one by one, showering them with sparks. A sharp sound of glass shattering overpowered it all.

The arms clenched him tighter and suddenly he was going down, the hallway spinning around him. For a brief second he saw a face, dark green eyes and freckles, then a shadow covered them both.

Time slowed down. Sam blinked, his brain trying to catch up to what his eyes were seeing. Millions of shards of glass suspended above them, seemingly help up by the air itself. There was a shivering shadow, one moment there, the next gone. It flickered, glittered, like a tv channel with too much static. Then suddenly, with no warning, it turned into a vast skeleton of black feathers.

Wings. The largest wings Sam had ever seen, larger than the shadow of Castiel’s wings had been. Twisted and so dark, they looked to be smudged with char. Covered in glass, the feathers that easily spanned Sam’s forearm quivered above him. The glass was hurting them, it was hurting him, whoever his rescuer was. Sam had heard his sharp intake of breath when the glass descended, felt his fingers dig into Sam’s ribs hard enough to make his eyes tear up again. But he couldn’t look away from them. He wanted to reach up and touch them, despite the pain. For a few moments everything around him faded into the background and he felt bright, childlike wonder. He thought of his mother, her soft voice and the delicate angel statues she’d loved so much. Despite the demon blood and Lucifer and all those months without a soul, he was being protected by an angel. An angel was looking out for him. Between the pain and the awe, the distrust he’d been harboring all those past months never surfaced. Here was a fairytale come to life, here was a balm to the wound Castiel’s had words left, all those years ago, when he called him the Boy with the Demon Blood. A wound that still burned, that no number of years would ever erase. Despite it, there was an angel, in the world, who believed Sam Winchester was worth saving.

Something warm struck his cheek and slid down to his neck.

His rescuer lifted his head, jaw clenched tight, breath labored. Their eyes met and Sam wanted to say something, anything at all, but his throat would not listen. He felt warm liquid drops splattering on the back of his hand, his forehead. Another one slid down the leather jacket in front of him, thick and red. He looked up at the wings again and saw the cobweb of red spreading. His stomach turned.

They were bleeding. The first pair of angel wings he’d seen and they were hurt protecting him. They were bleeding because of him.

“No,” he rasped softly.

The arms tightened around him, lifting him again, and the world tilted. His chest constricted. His vision spun, an entirely new variety of pain locking up his limbs. He knew he was going to lose consciousness only moments before he actually did, but it was just long enough to hope that it was all a bad dream.

\--

The drive to the Bunker was long, Sam’s head cradled against his shoulder in the back seat the entire time, his faint breath warming a spot on Gadreel’s neck. Dean Winchester might not be a man of many words, but he seemed to dislike the silence. The music that continuously blared through the car speakers called up quite a few memories, all of them belonging to his vessel. Joshua had spent a good portion of his life working in seedy roadside bars, a never-ending soundtrack of electric guitars playing in the background. His only civilian skill had been pouring drinks. It had taken him a long time to realize that he’d been pouring too many down his own throat. Strings of unsuccessful detoxes followed, years of numbness and self-loathing and praying. In some ways they were a perfect match. Both failures, both willing to do anything to change their inevitable destiny.

Gadreel had not been completely sure that he was doing the right thing. When it came to Winchesters, many of his Brothers and Sisters could doubtlessly spend years debating what constituted right or wrong. A small part of him already disliked Dean Winchester, his single mindedness, his obvious propensity for violence. There was something about the man that was shrill and unsteady, a note vibrating too high for comfort, on the verge of shattering glass.

But Sam... Sam was still a mystery.

When his eyes had finally opened, back in the hospital room, Gadreel was surprised to find them so different from his brother’s. He had expected the same overly bright green, the monochrome of Eden’s perfection, sharp and unattainable. Instead he’d found all the colors of the earth. The deep greens of an unconquerable forest. The browns of fertile soil. The gold of sunlight after rain. He’d met the man’s gaze once, for a single heartbeat. The glass burning above him, thousands of fires lit across his wings. He expected to see pain and panic and fury, all those emotions that humans were so well versed in. But Sam Winchester’s gaze had been full of awe and wonder.

Gadreel had spent millions of years diving through depths of despair and regret, but for a single moment, in Sam Winchester’s eyes, he’d been a hero.

\--

Lowering Sam on the bed and finally stepping away from him resulted in the strangest sense of loss. He had barely registered such things as heat or cold before, but he keenly felt the absence of Sam’s warmth. It made him wonder if this was simply another echo of the soul that huddled deep inside of him. It seemed unlikely that he would suddenly grow so attached to something that was unnatural to his kind in the first place.

“What?” Dean said, “Why are you staring at him? Is he ok?”  
“He is as well as he can be, considering.”  
“What does that mean? Considering what?”  
“Considering most of his major organs are severely burned. I will continue what I started at the hospital. Then I must rest.”  
“How long until he’s back to normal?”  
“Days? Weeks? Even once he is completely healed, he will still be weak. It will take him a great deal of time to regain his strength.”  
“Never mind that, I’ll get him back on his feet, you just fix him first.”

Gadreel just nodded. He hadn’t known Dean Winchester longer than a few hours and he already understood that the man did not tolerate betrayal, did not tolerate failure, and rarely allowed reason to interfere with his convictions. He found himself more and more surprised that Dean had resisted Michael’s call. They would have fit each other like puzzle pieces, the Supreme Commander of the Heavenly Hosts and the Righteous Man.

“Find me if he wakes up, alright?”  
“I will.”

\--

Sam blinked at the ceiling. His ceiling, his room. Bunker. Home.

It had all been a dream. The hospital, the screaming, the bleeding angel wings. It was definitely not even at the top ten of his most disturbing dreams, but it had struck a chord. One he had no intention of analyzing.

He tried to roll over and gasped, muscle cramps locking up his back and chest. Ok, so that part hadn’t been a dream, he really was hurt.

“Sam?”

He jerked away from the stranger next to his bed, automatically reaching for the gun under his pillow. A gun that wasn’t there. He tried to scoot further away and a sharp cramp cut across his stomach, raising bile to his throat.

“Sam? Do not be alarmed. I mean you no harm.”

Yeah, he’d heard that one before. Where was Dean? Was he hurt? How did this stranger even get into the bunker?

The bunker, where they’d left Kevin and the Angel Tablet completely unprotected.

A wave of panic threatened to overwhelm him.

“Please, you are not fully healed yet,” the stranger sounded genuinely upset.  
“Let me summon Dean, he will explain everything just-- please, do not move.”

Leather jacket and freckles and... green eyes?

No. Impossible.

“Wait,” Sam hissed, “I know you. From the hospital. You-- Who are you? Why are you here?”

The man had stopped moving the moment Sam told him to wait, but he still looked ready to run,  
“My name is Gadreel. Your brother requested my help in healing you. I did not intend to be the first thing you see when you woke up. I did not expect you to wake for some hours yet.”  
“You-- you’re an angel?”  
“I was. I am.”  
“The wings... the wings I saw, those were real?”

His face twisted slightly into an expression Sam couldn’t read. He seemed even more eager to run than before.  
“Yes. My wings. They are real. I need-- I promised Dean I would let him know as soon as you are awake. I need to find him.”

The man, angel, whatever the fuck he was, took off like his ass was on fire. And Sam was supposed to what? Lay there and wait for him to change his mind? Well screw that, Sam wanted a weapon handy no matter what the hell was happening out there.

He swung his legs out of the bed and sat up. The room tilted with him and then just kept tilting until he had to close his eyes to make it stop. Nausea gripped him. He couldn’t feel any physical injuries, no pulling or tugging of stitches, no burning pain of torn tendons or sharp ache of broken bones. But he hurt. Everywhere. If the angel and Sam’s dreamlike memory were to be believed, then he really had been in a hospital. For how long? Why? His memories seemed fractured, bits and pieces floating around, refusing to connect.

First thing first. He had no angel blade stashed in his room; the one he had, he’d always carried with him, and now it could be anywhere. But he did have a nice, old fashioned handgun in his sock drawer. That was maybe six feet away, a distance that suddenly resembled miles. He was trembling from the effort of sitting upright and he was supposed to stand? Walk?

He eyed the nightstand and cautiously gripped it with one hand. It should hold up. He’s been hurt worse than this in the past, he was pretty sure, and still managed to get around. So this should be nothing. A walk in the park.

He heaved himself up and his left knee actually locked on demand, attempting to keep him standing. The right one never even got that far. It just folded under him and he flailed for the dresser, hoping to grab it before he smacked his damn head against it and knowing he would overshoot by at least a foot.

He’d actually closed his eyes and tensed his body against the impact when an arm wrapped around him, pulling him up and back towards the bed.

“Dude, what the fuck are you doing?”  
“Dean,” Sam latched on to him with both hands, relieved to see the look of familiar frustration, even though it was directed at him.  
“Of course it’s me, who the fuck would it be?”  
“Prove it,” Sam said, trying to loosen his grip.

The bed seemed to be swaying slightly and he was pretty damn close to throwing up.  
But he had to be sure first.

Dean rolled his eyes. Pulled out a knife and cut his hand. Grabbed a salt shell out of his pocket and cut it, then shook out the salt all over himself.

“Now you’re gonna have salt in your bed. And I don’t have any Holy Water on me. You got any stashed up here?”  
“No-- maybe, I don’t know. Never mind, I’m sure it’s you.”  
“Damn right, anyone else woulda let you smack your damn head into the dresser on principle. What the fuck were you doing?”  
“My gun isn’t under the pillow. What happened? I wake up with a strange angel staring at me, I feel like crap and I don’t remember how I got here. Did you bring me to a hospital?”  
“You don’t remember the trials?”

That word was like a light switch. Suddenly there was a flood of memories, hellhound bleeding all over him, trip to Hell to rescue Bobby, the old church, curing a demon. Finally, there was some sort of a timeline, even if it was all patchy still, full of black holes he couldn’t fill.

“Yeah,” he said, “I do, it’s just-- it’s all messy and disconnected. Like there’s shit missing.”  
“What’s the last thing you remember?”  
“Uh... Crowley, blood, Abaddon... you. You stopped me from completing the last trial, then just-- pain. Meteor shower?”  
“Angels. Metatron closed Heaven, ejected all the angels.”

“They-- they all fell?” Sam was horrified, “All the angels?”  
“Except for the douchebag himself. I’m sure he took a nice slow ride down somehow.”  
“But... how? Are they all-- they can’t be dead, you found one that can still heal.”  
“Yeah, it’s more like he found me.”  
“How?”  
“All right, you know what? I’m not saying another fucking thing until you’re lying down. I know that face you’re making and if you barf on me, I swear to God--“

\--

Dean had gone to get him some food and Sam was debating which books he should ask for, considering he would be trapped in the damn bed for at least a couple of days, when a soft knock echoed against his door.

“Come in,” he said, expecting Kevin.

Instead, he was surprised to see the angel from before, looking infinitely less anxious now. Come to think of it, that was the first time Sam had seen any angel look anxious, aside from Cas.

“I hope I am not disturbing you,” he said.

Sam sat up straighter, pushing the pillows behind him,  
“No, come in. It’s Gadreel, right?”  
“Yes. I wish we could have met under more agreeable circumstances.”  
“Yeah, you and me both. You wanna sit?”

The angel eyed the chair he’d been sitting in earlier and shifted his feet. So maybe the anxiety was gone, but there was a good deal of awkwardness there. Another thing Sam had learned not to expect from angels in general.

“Come on. You’re tall and craning my neck is making me nauseous. Is that gonna go away any time soon? The nausea, I mean.”  
“Uh... yes, I believe so,” he settled on the edge of the chair and clasped his hands tightly, tension radiating from his stiff posture, “Food and water should help.”  
“Dean is on it. He told me what happened, in the hospital and afterwards. You saved my life.”  
“Ah... yes, I suppose. You are very strong, Sam Winchester, I cannot take all the credit.”  
“Strong or not, I was dying. Thank you.”  
“You are welcome,” he said, but he seemed ready to run again.

Sam had a faint suspicion why the angel was so uncomfortable around him. Although he told himself he wouldn’t bring it up, this awkwardness was definitely not something he wanted to deal for the next few days.

“I know who you are,” he said bluntly, “and not the short version Cas gave Dean. I’ve read all there is on you and... the others Lucifer took under his wing.”

He regretted his blunt tone when Gadreel flinched.

“I don’t want you to think there are things you need to hide,” he hurried on, “or that your past would be held against you here. Especially not by me.”  
Sam grinned weakly, “As it happens, I know a thing or two about dooming human kind.”  
“You have been redeemed many times over,” Gadreel said softly, “and I have done nothing but spend millennia in prison. You do yourself a great disservice by comparing your deeds to mine.”

Before Sam could think of a response, Dean barged in with a tray balanced in one hand.  
“Ok dude, I’ve got all the invalid food here, I’ve got soup and juice and even one of those gross jello cups--“

Gadreel stood up quickly and Dean stopped when he saw him, eyes narrowing slightly.  
“Everything ok here?”  
“Yeah,” Sam said quickly, “We never actually met except for the hospital fiasco and me freaking out earlier so,”  
he turned to Gadreel, “I’d like to ask you some more questions later, if you’re not busy.”

Gadreel hesitated a moment then inclined his head,  
“Of course. Anything you need.”  
“Thank you.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, Dean put the tray down next to Sam and shook his head,  
“He’s a creeper. But I didn’t really have a lot of choices.”  
“He’s not so bad, he kind of reminds me of Cas. Remember what he was like before you ruined him?”

Dean sat at the edge of the bed and scoffed,  
“Ruined him? What, you liked him better with that tree-sized stick up his ass? I taught him how to loosen the fuck up. It was a community service.”  
“You got him drunk and tried to get him to have sex with a hooker.”  
“Huh,” Dean looked thoughtful, “I wonder if that’d work again.”  
“Don’t you dare, you already ruined your angel. Leave mine alone.”  
“Oh, no,” Dean said, “I don’t think so. He’s not a stray dog that needs a home, ok? I don’t want him here any longer than he needs to be. Once you’re patched up and he’s patched up, he’s getting his feathery ass back on the road.”  
“He saved my life.”  
“Yeah, so?”  
“He saved my life Dean. He didn’t have to. It would be nice to have another angel on our side, especially since you have no clue where Cas is.”  
“Cas’ll find us, ok? We don’t need another angel.”

Sam sighed,  
“Can you at least not be an ass to him?”  
“Fine. Your soup is getting cold.”


	3. Chapter 3

The morning found Gadreel meditating in a small storage room, the only place where he could be sure not to disturb anyone. His strength was returning in small increments and he was grateful for a few hours of peace and silence, where he could, in essence, heal himself. Even so, he could hear the Prophet on the far side of the bunker, his shuffling feet and the tune he was humming, followed by a clink of glass and gurgle of the coffee maker. In the deep hours of the night, both Winchesters slept, more or less peacefully. The Prophet, however, only slept an hour or less at a time before he returned to work, and even those short naps seemed unintentional and restless. The rustle of pages and the soft scratch of a pencil had been surprisingly comforting, helping Gadreel’s concentration instead of breaking it.

He’d spent the evening wandering the bunker, memorizing the locations of all the devil’s traps and the runes carved into the walls and floorboards. He’d had his doubts when Dean Winchester had called it a safe place, but it would seem that his assessment was correct. The bunker was not only impenetrable, but its design ensured that an intruder would be at a disadvantage every step of the way. Throughout his wanderings he’d found his way back to Sam’s door many times, because ‘later’ was such an uncertain term, so incomprehensibly human, that Gadreel could not begin to guess what it meant. Each time he found Sam and Kevin deep in discussion behind the closed door, a discussion that seemed focused on deciphering the Angel Tablet. In the end, Sam had gone to sleep and Gadreel had deduced that ‘later’ must have meant ‘the next day.’

In a few hours, when the sun was fully in the sky, he would attempt to visit Sam again. The thought filled him with anxious anticipation. So far, the man had proven to be utterly unpredictable. He’d woken a day too early, his responses, memory, coordination, everything in a much better condition than should have been humanly possible. Only Gadreel knew how weak his heart was, how much of his lung function was below normal.

He had to admit that he’d had certain expectations. Passion and intellect and cunning, attributes Lucifer’s vessel could not do without. He should have expected the man to be a warrior too, with a warrior’s strength and resilience, yet he hadn’t. But most of all, he’d been surprised by Sam’s understanding. He was not accustomed to kindness, and he certainly had not expected it to come from a man who had lost so much, who had given up so many things dear to his heart in an endless battle between good and evil.

There was much Gadreel did not know about human nature, but he was already convinced that Sam Winchester was extraordinary. There was an odd and unexplainable yearning, deep below his borrowed ribcage, to see Sam Winchester fully recovered, tall and indestructible. To see the warrior within him free of wounds.

 

Once he recognized Dean Winchester’s footsteps across the bunker hall, he let himself sink deeper and tune out the noises around him. Sam now had his brother to watch over his sleep. Gadreel could relax and drift for a while, free of worry.

Hours went by, undisturbed.

When Dean Winchester’s call came, Gadreel felt his panic like a sharp blade, cutting across the space between them. In the background and almost overpowered by Dean’s frantic tone echoed Sam’s painful gasping, a failing struggle to take in a full breath. He attempted to materialize at the source and nothing happened. Now feeling faint panic of his own, he attempted it again and again until he realized that the Bunker’s defenses prevented it. He had wasted valuable time trying to do something he should have known would not work. Rushing to the source on foot, he broke the storage room door, bent the railing and knocked Sam’s door off its hinges.

He found the man on the bed, his hair plastered to his head, the sheets wrapped around him sopping wet and dripping on the floor.

“He got in a shower,” Dean said, fury warring with fear in his voice, “all on his own, without saying anything.”

\--

“Tell me about your vessel.”

The physical exertion of the healing would have exhausted any other human being. It had exhausted Gadreel to the point where he’d settled in a chair next to the bed without a complaint. Sam looked worn out and pale, yet his eyes were clear and inquisitive, if anything, sharper than they had been the day before. He should be sleeping. Resting. It would help him recover and gain strength faster, but no amount of his brother’s pestering would change his mind. Gadreel decided not to make a similar attempt. At least Sam had agreed to eat, which explained the crash of pots and pans coming from the kitchen, where Dean Winchester still fought fury heavily laced with relief.

“What would you like to know?”

Sam shifted carefully so he was lying on his side, head propped up by two damp pillows. His hair was still wet from the shower but the edges had started to dry and they curled softly around his jaw.

“Why did he agree? To become your vessel, I mean.”  
“He had been contemplating suicide instead.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“He was unhappy. He prayed for a cure for his condition, but none came. Then he prayed for some sort of release without having to commit suicide, which in his mind and in the eyes of Heaven would be considered the ultimate sin.”  
“So he just let you in instead of killing himself? What happens when we reopen the gates of Heaven and you go home?”  
“I had promised to take his soul with me. It will be difficult but not impossible. I intend to keep my promise.”  
“What condition did he have? Cancer?”  
“No. It was not physical affliction. At least not at first.”  
“Oh,” Sam said, forehead wrinkled in thought, “so he’s... is he still in there?”  
“Yes. He has a small assortment of happy memories and seems to prefer reliving them.”  
“What happens if he decides he doesn’t want you any more and doesn’t want to die?”  
“I don’t believe that is likely to happen.”  
“Why not?”  
“He has abandoned the flesh and bone to the furthest extent possible for a simple human being. If I were to leave without his soul, he would stay buried deep, unable to find his way back.”  
“Like being in a coma?”  
“I am not familiar with all the meanings of that word.”

Sam shut his eyes for a moment,  
“Never mind. What if... suppose he somehow found his way back? And wanted you gone. Then what?”

Gadreel tilted his head in confusion,  
“I do not understand. He should not be affected. The possession does not damage the vessel, at least not possession by one such as me.”  
“You would just leave?”  
“I cannot possess a vessel that does not want to be possessed. Nor would I want to.”

The answers were obvious yet Sam looked relieved, as if he’d not been certain of them beforehand. Strange, coming from one who had experienced being possessed by Lucifer. Sam, of all people, should know that without consent, there can be no possession.

“You wings are hurt,” Sam said.  
“They will heal.”  
“They were bleeding, in the hospital. I saw the glass cutting into them.”  
“I was tired and weak and I could not control them as well as I would wish. I am sorry if this caused you any discomfort.”

Sam sat up carefully. His arm shook where it fought to keep him upright.  
“Can I see them?”  
“I do not understand.”  
“You wings. Could I see them again? Or is that-- I’m sorry, is that a wrong thing to ask? Will it hurt them? Showing them to me?”  
“No, I-- no, it will not hurt them but-- if you want to see angel wings, perhaps Castiel’s would be a better choice? Mine have been marked. After the trial. They are not an accurate representation. You will be disappointed”  
“Try me,” Sam said, his lip curving slightly, “I don’t get disappointed easily.”  
“Very well.”

It did take a certain amount concentration, made much harder by Sam’s expectant expression. However, it was almost a relief to unfold them fully, to make them as present in this plane as Gadreel himself was. They hurt. From the moment he fell, his wings had become a constant and unrelenting ache he could not ignore. He had been ashamed of them before, black as they were, a stamp of his guilt that could not be hidden. That shame seemed so vain and laughable now, compared to the painful mess they had become.

The soft awe on Sam Winchester’s face surprised and distressed him. It was the second time he faced something so unlikely, something that should never, in any way, be connected with him. He was no better equipped to deal with Sam’s unexplainable awe now than he had been the first time. He focused on the ground instead, not sure if he could hold the man’s eyes once he met them. The light of his grace created strange patterns and he studied these silently, avoiding the shadow of the skeleton bones and twisted feathers. With his gaze locked on the space between his worn sneakers, he did not notice Sam reach out one trembling hand, but he felt the gentle touch against the torn wing. He shuddered in shock, the warmth of it traveling through his spine, coiling somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach.

Sam was already pulling back quickly,  
“I’m sorry, did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to, I just-- “  
“You did not hurt me Sam,” Gadreel said, “it is not as easy as that, to cause them harm.”  
“But at the hospital-- the blood--“  
“They were not bleeding. I had forced them to take physical shape and in that physical shape they were hurt. You perceived them as bleeding because this would be a natural physical reaction on your plane of existence.”

Sam frowned,  
“I don’t understand.”  
Gadreel opened his mouth to try and explain it again when he noticed a distinct lack of noise from the kitchen.  
“I believe your brother is on his way back.”

He folded the wings back up, cringing slightly at the insistent burn between his shoulder blades. Once they were gone from the view and the glow of his grace dissipated, the room seemed darker than before. It was odd, with all the technology humans were capable of, that they preferred such soft and ineffectual lights.

Faint disappointment flashed across Sam’s face quickly, only to be replaced by a small frown.  
“Will they heal? On their own? Is there something we could do to help?”  
“They will heal on their own. It will take time, much like your own recovery. You should rest, and not attempt another... shower for a few days at least.”

He heard Dean’s steps on the stairs and stood up,  
“Dean is bringing you food, I should let you eat in peace.”  
“Wait, I’m... I’m gonna be stuck here for a while just-- doing nothing so, would you mind coming back? When you’re not busy. I have some more questions and... Kevin needs help with the Angel Tablet.”  
“I can not read the Angel Tablet, Sam.”  
“Right, I know that, but he’s got some of it translated and it’s not like any language we’ve seen before, I was hoping you could take a look and see if it’s familiar? Anything would be a big help right now.”  
“Of course,” Gadreel said, “Call for me when you require assistance and I will come.”  
“Thank you,” Sam smiled.

\--

The translation turned out to be a form of cueniform, an Akkadian adaption of the Sumerian script. Gadreel could not understand why both men were so unreasonably excited by such a useless piece of knowledge. Humans had very short memories and the script dated back to 2000 B.C. It was unlikely that a person capable of translating the tablet even existed.

Sam explained the ‘any news is good news’ concept which Gadreel also did not understand, but it made the man smile and Gadreel had already decided that he very much liked Sam’s smiles. Seemingly invigorated by the new information, Kevin left to research any known translators of the script. Sam asked Gadreel to stay and help him sort out any manuscripts that may have instructions on killing a Knight of Hell. Gadreel obliged gladly and they continued research at a slower pace, often drifting into bizarre and unrelated subjects. Gadreel found himself very much surprised that Sam had a keen interest in history. It inevitably led to the source of Gadreel’s limited knowledge, the numerous books he had read during his imprisonment, a kindness provided in utmost secrecy by one of his Sisters. He’d had very little interest in the written word until the years of solitude and silence began to press on him. Books had been a welcome escape from his cage, a rare escape, but more valuable than he could ever place into words. He owed Hannah a debt for dozens of dusty tomes, most of them dry and yellowed from age. Stories of nations raising and falling, the earth changing, man advancing. The little he gathered about human nature, he’d gathered from those books. He’d thought himself well versed until he attempted to communicate and realized how incomplete his knowledge actually was. Yet Sam was infinitely patient, always willing to explain that which Gadreel did not understand and equally prepared to forgive his missteps.

Through all their discussions of history, how much of the Bible was accurate and how much was just human fancy, Sam never asked him what had actually happened. He never asked about Lucifer, about Gadreel’s failure or his punishment. He found himself alternating between gratitude for the man’s obvious kindness and frustration that many subjects they could have discussed were simply avoided, just because they skirted so close to Gadreel’s mistakes.

When the research brought them to Cain, for the third time, Gadreel decided to put a stop to the endless circling.  
“I believe Cain might be the answer. He was, in essence, the first Knight of Hell. He created all the others.”

Sam glanced at him quickly, face half-hidden behind his hair.

He was sitting on the bed, legs crossed, a multitude of pillows propping up his back. He looked comfortable in a way Dean Winchester never did. Comfortable with himself and his surroundings. His white tee shirt was nearly threadbare from repeated washings and the flannel pajama pants had long lost their original colors. His bare feet were tucked under him now; earlier on, they had been swathed into a small blanket.

Gadreel could not imagine Dean dressed in anything less than three layers he always seemed to wear. He could not imagine him sprawled so loosely on any surface, not even the bed on which he slept. What was it that made one brother so comfortable in his skin while the other wore every stitch like it was armor?

“Are you saying Cain is still alive?”  
“No. Not alive in the way you are alive. But a demon, still somewhere in the world, certainly. Someone who created the Knights of Hell should know how to kill them.”

Sam shifted and unfolded his legs, the movement bringing him closer to the edge of the bed and closer to Gadreel.  
“Can he be summoned?”  
“I doubt it. And I would not recommend it. I do not think there is a Devil’s Trap in the world strong enough to contain him.”  
“Then how?”  
“I believe your brother still has the King of Hell in the trunk of his car.”  
“Crowley? You think Crowley could find him?”  
“Yes. More importantly, if anyone were capable of persuading Cain to share any information, another demon would have the best chance of succeeding.”

Sam studied him silently for a few moments, then shook his head,  
“No. I’m sorry but I don’t think that would work. We’d have to let Crowley go. As soon as those handcuffs were off, he’d crawl into a hole and we’d never find him again. Or worse, he’d convince Cain to kill us all.”  
“Then send me with him. I am certainly a match for the King of Hell, even at half strength.”

Sam looked away, his fingers brushing one of the pages,  
“And Cain? Are you a match for Cain?”  
“No one is a match for Cain. Perhaps an Archangel would be, but I can only think of two who could face him and live.”  
“Then no. I won’t risk you.”

As curious as the statement was, Gadreel thought he understood. As a weapon, he would be wasted against Cain. Still, it was frustrating to not be of any use, other than pointing out an ancient form of a dead language.

“You meant Lucifer and Michael, right?”  
Sam was looking at him again, his gaze cautious,  
“The two Archangels that would be capable of beating Cain.”  
“Yes. Both would be... strong enough. Out of the two, I would place my bets on Lucifer.”

Only after the words were spoken, did Gadreel consider that maybe Sam was avoiding the subject not to spare Gadreel, but to spare himself. Who knew what sort of memories the man had of the Cage, of being trapped with Lucifer for years, suffering unbelievable torment. Did he hurt Sam by mere mention of Lucifer’s name?

“You must have loved him very much,” Sam said softly.

The shock of that simple sentence rendered him speechless.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said quickly, his face turning a faint shade of red, “I wasn’t thinking-- I’m-- What about the Angel Tablet? Do you think Crowley could read it? He had no trouble reading the demon tablet.”  
“I did love him,” Gadreel said,  
“He was the brightest star in the sky, the most beautiful of God’s creations. I loved him better than my Father. I betrayed the world for him.”

Sam bit his lip and looked away again. His hands aimlessly shuffled the manuscripts, his face now fully hidden from the view.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.  
“Me too,” Gadreel added uselessly, wishing he hadn’t spoken at all.

\--

The King of Hell refused to cooperate. Dragging him from the trunk of the car and to the Bunker basement had been a frustrating and an unpleasant experience. Gadreel could not understand why the humans could not smell the bitter stench of sulfur and death that the thing exuded but he was glad to chain it to the floor and walk away. Dean stayed behind. He seemed sure that he could extract whatever information the King of Hell had at his disposal. Gadreel had offered to help and had been firmly rebuffed.

He could not say that he was disappointed.

He had intended to return to Sam’s room afterwards and offer whatever other assistance the man might need. Instead, he found himself back in the small storage room. Once the door was closed, he could see nothing but shadows. And in the shadows, he found the memories resurfacing.

He had read books, in Heaven’s prison, books written by men attempting to describe the Garden of Eden. There were paintings, all over the world, attempting to depict the perfection of it. Gadreel had hoped to one day study them, to determine if human memory stretched far enough where he could recognize at least a small part of the beauty he once knew. It had been a fountain of life and color, soothing songs of birds and rushing of the rivers. Fields so green they would hurt one’s eyes with their brilliance. Air sweet with the scents of flowers and ripe fruit, lush grass and rich earth. And there had been peace, unlike any other Gadreel had ever felt. It had been a place created to comfort, to soothe, to embrace those who walked within. A gift for all of human kind, created by his Father, so exquisite that nothing would ever compare.

It should not have mattered that the trap had already been set, that the first two humans who walked the Garden were perhaps destined to fail, sooner or later. Gadreel would have never questioned the placement of the Tree of Knowledge, would have never thought to wonder why his Father would leave it within reach, then demand that it not be touched. He might have been entrusted with guarding the Garden but he’d been young still, as young as his kind can be. He had been young and Lucifer had been beautiful.

Lucifer had questioned everything. Had doubted everything. He’d pointed out flaws in Father’s Creation that Gadreel would have never seen on his own. But more importantly, he’d asked Gadreel questions, he’d listened to him. Before Lucifer, Gadreel did not posses a sense of self that was separate from his Brothers and Sisters. Once he had, nothing was ever the same. Lucifer had opened his eyes, in the same way Eve’s eyes had opened once she ate of the Tree. And then his Brother had abandoned him.

He had spent centuries wishing he had never listened, wishing he had been stronger or different, and hating that flaw in himself which had yearned for Lucifer to see him, to truly see him as something worthy. But only now, in the dark confinement of a dusty room, a place that resembled the only home other than Eden he’d ever known, he found himself angry. Angry at his Father for being all knowing and still allowing Lucifer to destroy something so beautiful. Angry at Lucifer for his ability to inspire such love in others and yet being utterly incapable of returning it.

After his judgment, Father had retired to some unknown place, essentially washing his hands of the entire mess he himself had created. Lucifer, despite being cast down and trapped, had immediately began plotting his eventual rising. And Gadreel... was forgotten. By everyone. Even Hannah’s kindness had only lasted a few centuries. He had paid for his crimes and Lucifer’s crimes and his Father’s failures, and he was the only one still paying. Still tortured by something that the entirety of human kind had nearly forgotten.

Was this justice? This shame he would always feel, no matter how many centuries he existed? This inability to look Sam Winchester in the eye because he would always be tainted? Was there even such a thing as redemption for him?

He sunk to his knees and closed his eyes. Not to pray; he’d stopped praying a long time ago because Father had stopped listening. But the anger he felt was not something he wished to keep. If he was to return to Sam, he would have to let it go. He would have to find some peace in himself. Of all those who had judged him, who still judged him, Sam Winchester had been the only one to show him kindness. He would never return that kindness with anything less.


	4. Chapter 4

Less than a week after Gadreel had first laid his hands on Sam Winchester, the man was back in full health. His body had returned to its natural rhythm after a great deal of coaxing, and although Gadreel had pronounced him healed, he warned that they would do well to stay cautious and monitor him closely. Sam was still weak, days of being bed bound taking a toll on his energy and muscle tone. He started taking long runs in the mornings, during which Gadreel sat quietly next to the bunker entrance and waited for his return. He hovered near the exercise room while Sam fought to build back the muscle he’d lost, outside the kitchen as Sam began preparing his own food; anywhere Sam was, Gadreel would stay nearby just in case the man needed him.

Sam was not exactly restless, but he spent very little time being idle. He often wandered the Bunker’s halls, welcoming Gadreel’s company each time he offered it. They discussed the Men of Letters legacy, history, science, whichever subject Sam settled on. The man was a fountain of knowledge, his Latin impressive, his enthusiasm contagious.

Aside from Sam, he rarely found himself unoccupied. Kevin frequently requested his assistance with certain translations and Gadreel was always more than ready to help. The Prophet was a curious child, uncommonly intelligent yet perpetually unhappy. It was obvious that the Heavenly duty which was placed upon him was unwelcome. Gadreel did not pretend to understand but he did sympathize, and he did his best to always be available when needed.

Dean requested his assistance as well, although Dean’s needs were of different nature. He wanted a list of all the angels who could possibly become a threat. He wanted to test numerous and sometimes painful angel traps. He wanted the vast amounts of books carried up from the basement so Kevin could dig through them without being subjected to Crowley’s taunts. Gadreel carried out each request swiftly and efficiently. It was quite obvious that Dean Winchester was the Commander here, if there was such a thing. It was Dean who had offered him a sanctuary, and Gadreel remembered this each and every time a potentially painful or dull request came his way.

Still, throughout all those hours spent helping Kevin and Dean and on his own, he carried Sam’s voice with him. Somehow, everything had, in some way, become connected to Sam. After only a few days, this vast human world he knew very little about had shrunk into one single thing that occupied all of his attention. He could not be sure if this was a common occurrence for humans, this preoccupation with one person. If it had caused anyone any unpleasantness, he would have doubtlessly analyzed it more carefully. However, Sam seemed pleased with his company, and if Dean did spend a lot of time frowning at them both, it was something the man did with everyone. He frowned at inanimate objects most often and they were clearly not at fault, so Gadreel determined that the general unhappy attitude must be one of the key aspects of Dean Winchester’s personality.

If forced to describe the first week of knowing Sam Winchester, Gadreel would call it a rebirth, an enlightenment, both exhilarating and melancholy. Even had he not spent the entirety of human existence imprisoned, he doubted he could have ever been prepared to feel such fascination with one human being. But perhaps the most pleasing part of their curious relationship was Sam’s level of familiarity with Gadreel. The brush of their elbows as they walked the dirt road outside the Bunker so Sam could get fresh air. The warmth of Sam’s hand against his own as he passed over a book or a journal for translation. Sam’s knee touching his under the long library table, Sam’s fingers pressing his shoulder to draw his attention, Sam's unguarded smile.

Gadreel became accustomed to Sam’s constant presence the way one became accustomed to night turning into day or spring into summer. And somewhere, along the way, he forgot that he did not belong here. Until Dean Winchester cornered him outside of Sam’s room, pulled him aside, and explained some things Sam did not.

Politeness. Personal space. Privacy.

The tentative rules surrounding those who are guests and those who are hosts. How Sam would never refuse Gadreel’s company because to do so would be impolite. How equally impolite it would be if Gadreel took up all of Sam’s time, leaving him with none for himself. How privacy and time alone are necessary for every human being.

Dean explained this in short sentences, not nearly as graceful as Sam would, but clearly enough where Gadreel understood that he had imposed. It was not surprising that this was one lesson Sam himself did not teach him. From what Gadreel had observed to far, the man was nearly incapable of refusing to do whatever would make those around him happy, even at his own personal peril.

He thanked Dean for the explanation and apologized for his transgression. Dean clapped him on the shoulder which seemed to be some sort of an affectionate gesture between males, and told him to remember it next time he was hovering outside the exercise room.

Now at a complete loss as to where else he could have misstepped, Gadreel avoided Sam for two days.

\--

He did his best to take Dean’s words to heart but despite this, a strange sort of tension grew between them, as if Dean was waiting for Gadreel to make another mistake. Unsure of everything, Gadreel began reconsidering every sentence multiple times before speaking. He spent more and more time in the small storage room, the only place where he could be sure to stay out of everyone’s way. The two days that followed were awkward and nearly unbearable. When Castiel called on the third day and requested transportation to the Bunker, Gadreel felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted off his chest. Dean packed and left, and even though he would be back in less than a day, his absence was welcome.

That same night he found himself wandering the Bunker freely, enjoying the silence. He hoped Sam was resting. The urge to knock on the man’s door had been overwhelming until he started moving, pacing the vast length of empty spaces.

He thought he understood Dean’s words. These small nuances and behaviors were still strange to him, yet he was determined to learn. He never wanted to cause Sam Winchester any discomfort. He debated long and hard whether he should apologize for his earlier transgressions, which were committed in ignorance. But this would require disturbing the man and he was unsure if that would be considered yet another misconduct.

So he walked aimlessly, marveling at the architecture, remembering the smile on Sam’s face when he spoke of the Men of Letters legacy. Out of all of Sam’s smiles, Gadreel preferred the soft small ones, partly hidden behind the man’s hair. The ones that were readily accompanied by the faint blush across Sam’s cheeks and the faint crinkles in the corners of his eyes. He’d just began to understand the secret language of those smiles and there were so many more he’d wanted to learn. The thought that he may never get the chance to do so was bitter, painful in a way he would be hard pressed to describe.

The library was still lit despite the late hour. The Prophet had fallen asleep at the desk again, face pressed against the yellowed pages of some ancient text. Even asleep, he looked exhausted. Gadreel could not imagine having to carry such an enormous burden and responsibility on frail human shoulders. It made him think of Sam again, pale face against the white hospital sheets, dying from the trials that no human being had undertaken in thousands of years.

How can such delicate creatures carry so much strength?

His eyes fell on a folded up blanket in the nearby armchair. It seemed only right to drape it carefully over Kevin’s shoulders. No amount of pestering had gotten the boy to rest in an actual bed. Gadreel guessed that this was the best they could all hope for.

Maybe it would be acceptable for him to stroll past Sam’s room. Just to ensure the man was sleeping as well. If he never alerted Sam to his presence then his concern could hardly be considered an intrusion.

When he turned to go though, Sam was sitting on the top of the stairs, studying him silently.

Gadreel stopped.

Was this personal time? Did Sam want to be alone?

Sam smiled at him, and Gadreel’s decision was taken out of his hands.

His feet carried him across the library and up the stairs, until he was settling down on the same step as Sam. He drank in the relaxed line of the man’s shoulders, the sweep of his eyelashes, the long fingers loosely entwined. He felt his own tension and restlessness melting away.

“You are not sleeping. Are you in pain?”  
“No, just-- not used to the silence I guess.”

Gadreel nodded. The older Winchester did have a hard time staying still, often banging around the bunker at all hours of the night. He had the sort of a presence that was hard to ignore or avoid. Along with his propensity for meaningless noise, Gadreel could understand how his absence could be severely felt.

“That was a sweet thing you did,” Sam said, “tucking Kevin in.”

Gadreel glanced over at the Prophet and saw a blanket covered mound, just a tuft of black hair sticking out.

“I did not know how to make his rest easier without disturbing him. From what I have observed so far, blankets seem to be one of the key ingredients for restful sleep.”  
Sam chuckled,  
“You’re right, they’re pretty important. I had one, when I was a kid, used to drag it with me everywhere. Couldn’t sleep without it. God, that thing-- I don’t even know where it came from, probably some Salvation Army store. It had these blue and green dog prints that got really faded over time,” he shrugged, rubbing the back of his head, “it did travel a lot so... I think I had it until I was ten or eleven? A lot longer than it was acceptable to have one.”  
“There are unacceptable times to have a blanket?”  
“Um,” his facial expression shifted to one Gadreel couldn’t read, “no, I mean... having a favorite blanket that you can’t sleep without? It’s sort of a kid thing. Adults don’t get attached to blankets.”

Gadreel considered this carefully.  
“Letting go of this attachment, it is a sign of adulthood?”  
“Uh, yes, I suppose so.”  
“But you were still a child.”  
“Was I?” Sam said, something in his eyes shifting and closing off.

He stood up,  
“I think I’ll try and get some sleep. Dean and Cas should be back early, I’d like to be awake when they get here.”

Gadreel stood up too, the uneasiness creeping back in.  
“Did I say something wrong?”  
“No,” Sam was already shaking his head and the smile was back, smaller and softer than before, “You didn’t say anything wrong, I’m just... tired.”  
Gadreel watched him rub his hands on his jeans, a nervous gesture he was now very familiar with. Then, before he could react, Sam leaned in and brushed his lips against Gadreel’s cheek.

“Good night,” he said, leaving Gadreel stunned and speechless at the top of the stairway.

\--

He had gotten some decidedly odd looks at first, before he formulated a story that seemed to invite a better reaction. After all, Sam did tell him he had owned the blanket as a child. Maybe there was something about these blue and green dog prints that was not suitable for adults. Humans had such bizarre rules, just when he thought he got the hang of them, some new, even more bizarre concept would leave him baffled. However, once he stated that he was trying to find a blanket for a child, the sales people finally became helpful.

Eight stores later, his damaged wings were aching from the strain. If he continued on in the same vein, he would not have the strength to make it back to the bunker. He would have to take the bus again or find some other mode of transport. Dean would be upset he was gone for such a long time. Sam might be worried. When Gadreel had started this search for a blanket, he did not expect it to be so difficult. And he was starting to seriously doubt the wisdom of this entire undertaking.

What if he’d misunderstood the fondness of Sam’s recollection? What if Sam was not interested in owning another blanket that could help him sleep? What if this was an entirely inappropriate gift? Gadreel had no one to ask. Gadreel’s contact with Sam seemed to make Dean uncomfortable and Castiel...

Castiel did not trust him. Their meeting that same morning had been decidedly cool, and while Castiel had been unfailingly polite, it was obvious he did not agree with Dean’s decision to offer Gadreel sanctuary. Some of the coolness was doubtlessly due to Castiel’s new status; an angel without its wings was no longer a warrior nor an authority of any kind. Technically, Gadreel outranked him now, even though the mere thought of outranking any of his Brothers and Sisters filled him with discomfort. Still, there was quite a bit more to Castiel’s resentment. He had done nothing so far to make the former angel suspicious but they both possessed long memories. There would be no forgiveness from Castiel, not that Gadreel had expected it. He supposed he should be content with basic courtesy.

But that left him with no one he could speak to, no one he could ask.

He was contemplating just giving up entirely when a sales girl flagged him down.  
“Sir? I found it. I found the blanket you were looking for. Is this it?”

She placed it in his hands and he found it surprisingly heavy for a child’s blanket.  
“It wasn’t in the kid’s section, but it has the print you wanted. It’s six by ten. Maybe you can have it altered?”

It was so soft that his hands sank into the material. Small blue and green creatures that only vaguely resembled dogs pranced across a field of white. The blue ones had a bright yellow ball in between their paws. The green ones held some sort of a flower in their teeth. Sunflowers? They all seemed to be smiling.

He nodded at the sales girl,  
“Thank you. I think this will be perfect.”

\--

He found Dean, Castiel and Kevin gathered in the library. Kevin was the only one who gave him a smile and a nod and Gadreel gratefully returned it. The blanket incident from the night before seemed to have placed him in a better light with the Prophet at least. There was something to this blanket thing that Gadreel did not quite understand but he could recognize its importance. Which is why his hand reflexively tightened around the bag handles when Castiel raised his eyebrows at it.

“I was starting to think you bailed on us,” Dean said.  
“I would not do that.”  
“Is that a Sears bag? Do angels shop?” Dean turned to Castiel, “You guys have a thing about the softer side of Sears I don’t know about?”  
Castiel scowled,  
“Not that I am aware. Can we focus please? Kevin was in the middle of an important passage.”  
“Unclench there, Cas. You’re human now, ok? Don’t go giving yourself a coronary.”  
“I don’t understand. I am not clenching anything.”

With their attention shifted away from him, Gadreel silently made his way across the library and up the stairs.

He hovered outside the door for a few minutes then knocked, the bag handles now clutched so tightly that they were cutting into the flesh of his fingers.

The door opened and he took a hesitant step back. But it was only Sam, his expression shifting from annoyance to one of the smiles Gadreel had catalogued, a smile he was pretty sure was meant to put him at ease.

“Oh. I thought you were Dean. He was up here earlier looking for you and being... Dean. Come in. Did you have... errands to run?”  
His gaze had settled on the bag and his eyebrows went up much the same way Castiel’s had.

“It’s for you,” Gadreel said, aware he sounded abrupt and not sure how to fix it, “A gift.”

Sam blinked at him.

After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Gadreel went on,  
“I know that there are traditions when it comes to gift exchange, that there are appropriate times for such things, however, your birthday is months away and I don’t believe I fully understand your interpretation of Christmas yet or how it connects to gift giving. I also do not quite understand when is one expected to receive a gift in return but I would like to clarify that I have no such expectation. This is simply meant to... help your sleeping habits.”

Throughout his little speech Sam looked both alarmed and amused,  
“My sleeping habits?”  
“I apologize in advance if this is an inappropriate gift.”

The alarm slightly overwhelmed the amusement as Sam took the proffered bag and peered inside. His smile slipped sideways before it disappeared completely. There was a sudden and unexpected tightness in Gadreel’s lungs as Sam pulled the blanket out, eyes locked on the pattern.

“Oh,” he said, more of an exhale than an actually sound.

“Is-- is that wrong? Should I have not done that?”

Sam clutched the blanket to his chest and and said nothing. Gadreel was starting to panic. He should have researched this, he knew he should have. He knew nothing about gifts or blankets or childhood memories.

He had hurt Sam with a blanket.

“Sam, I am sorry, I thought--“

Sam launched himself at Gadreel, trapping the blanket between them. Gadreel caught him, more out of instinct than any conscious decision. He felt Sam’s hands tightening in the back of his jacket, Sam’s hair brushing his cheek, Sam’s heart beating fast against his chest. So close, his scent was overwhelming. There were too many things happening at once, Sam’s skin hot under his hands even through the barrier of the shirt he was wearing, their knees knocking together, his soft breath tickling the back of Gadreel’s neck. It took him a few moments to realize that Sam was laughing quietly and the sound of it made his stomach flip.

“I can’t believe you,” he said, pulling away and gripping the blanket again, “I can’t believe-- how did you find it?”  
“I bought it,” Gadreel said carefully, “It cost thirty nine dollars and ninety-nine cents.”

Sam winced slightly but he was still grinning,  
“Wow. I never thought-- I mean, what were the chances they would still sell the same blanket?”  
“I was not sure if it was the same. The pattern seemed important and I assumed that as long as I could find the... dog pattern, it may still have some of the properties of your childhood blanket.”

Sam chuckled, a rich sound that vibrated in Gadreel’s chest.  
“You assumed correctly. I’m sure it’ll work as well as my old blanket did. Thank you. Thank you for thinking of me.”  
“I always think of you.”

Sam clutched the blanker tighter, color spreading across his cheeks. He looked down, hair falling forward and Gadreel wondered what he’d said that would make the man want to hide.

A sharp knock startled them both and Gadreel froze, knowing who it would be before the door opened.

Dean seemed to measure the distance between them right away, his gaze focusing on the blanket in Sam’s hands,  
“Sam, you haven’t eaten yet.”

Sam smiled, a wide grin that was nearly painful to see. Gadreel would trade immortality for Sam to direct that smile at him.  
“Look,” he spread the blanket out for Dean, “do you remember this?”  
“A blanket?” Dean said, “I don’t--“ he tilted his head, “Wait, is that-- your baby blanket? It can’t be, that thing would be... what? Twenty years old, at least?”  
“It’s not,” Sam shook it impatiently, “I gave that thing away, remember? Stuck it in one of those donation boxes somewhere in Iowa, but look! It’s exactly the same blanket, how crazy is that?”  
“Crazy,” Dean said, glancing at Gadreel out of the corner of his eye, “Where’d it come from?”  
“Gadreel bought it. We were talking about blankets the other night and I told him about it and he just-- went out and found it.”

Sam’s fingers brushed the pattern and he chuckled,  
“Remember that time I wanted a green dog and you told me there’s no such thing?”  
Dean rolled his eyes, “You cried two whole days dude, I couldn’t shut you up.”  
“You got in so much trouble,” Sam turned to Gadreel, “He spray-painted the neighbor's dog green. We were supposed to stay there for a week but we ended up having to leave the next day ‘cause the lady was furious, she’d threatened to call the cops, and dad--”  
“Yeah, dad was pissed,” Dean shot a sideways glance to Gadreel again and Gadreel knew it was time to go.

“I am happy you are pleased with the blanket Sam. I will leave you to eat.”  
“Wait, why don’t you come down with us?”  
“I do not require nourishment.”  
“No, I know that, just-- for company.”  
“He said no Sammy, come on, Cas was getting a second plate of chicken wings and if you don’t hurry there won’t be any food.”

Sam’s gaze was still locked on Gadreel, as if waiting for something, and Gadreel experienced a fresh wave of disappointment that he did not understand what he was supposed to say or do. He nodded awkwardly at both of them and let himself out, wishing he did not feel like he was letting Sam down.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam was at the shooting range when Kevin took the call.

Gadreel had spent the last few days buried so deep in the library books that Sam had barely seen him long enough to exchange a few words. According to Kevin, Gadreel was helping with research. Which was great, really. It stopped Dean’s annoying little hints that the angel should be on his way soon, and Kevin definitely needed the help.  
It was all great.

Except that Sam didn’t feel great. He felt lonely and curiously abandoned. He’d gotten used to seeing Gadreel multiple times a day, sometimes spending hours with him. It was curious, how quickly he’d adjusted to the angel always being there, knowing that each time he turned around, no matter where he was or what he was doing, Gadreel would be near. Of course, he knew it wouldn’t last forever. Eventually, once they succeeded in reopening the gates of Heaven, Gadreel would return home. It wasn’t like the relationship Castiel had with Dean, the ‘more profound bond’ or whatever Castiel had called it. Castiel had pretty much assigned himself as Dean’s guardian angel, and that was a good thing too. Sam understood, he really did. After all, Dean was the Righteous Man, he was to have been Michael’s vessel, he wasn’t just some... abomination. And, if he was to be honest, Dean needed a guardian angel more than Sam did. Considering he spent so much time trying to protect Sam, it was only fair that someone did the same for him. But...

Gadreel had been such good company. He was smart and attentive and even funny, although most of the time he didn’t mean to be. He never took offense at anything, never got upset when he didn’t understand things. It had been so easy, talking to him. For Sam, who was used to threading carefully with most everyone he’d ever met, it was such a relief to be completely unguarded. Even Dean took offense to certain things if Sam didn’t word them right.

Maybe it was all kind of silly, but Sam had been pretty sure that they were becoming good friends. And that was definitely where most of this abandoned feeling was coming from. The fact that he’d thought he’d made a friend.

He emptied another clip too fast, missing the center by an inch and a half.

It had nothing to do with the way Gadreel had looked at him that first week or so, like he couldn’t see anything but Sam. Castiel did that too. So maybe Castiel only did it with Dean, but it was an angel thing, not a sign of something... else. And then that night on the steps, with Dean gone, that was just-- nothing really. Sam had been tired, and Gadreel had looked all upset and lost for some reason and Sam had just-- he hadn’t even done anything. He’d kissed Charlie on the cheek before. And Jody. It was just a friend thing.

He reloaded the gun and rubbed a hand over his cheeks, feeling them burn. It would suck if Gadreel had misinterpreted the gesture as something more. Because that hadn’t been Sam’s intention. At all.

Well maybe it was a tiny bit more than just a friend thing, but only because Gadreel had tucked a blanket around Kevin and he’d had this look on his face, all soft and concerned, and it was-- well, Sam didn’t know what it was.

Sweet. It was sweet. And then he’d sat down next to him and looked at him like nothing else existed in the world, and listened to Sam the way he always does, so focused, so serious, as if Sam’s words were priceless. It was just-- what was he supposed to do?

Not kissing the poor confused angel would’ve probably been a good idea.

He emptied another clip, his aim even worse the second time.

And what was with the blanket? How was Sam even supposed to feel about that? Who did something like that? Dean was the only other person in the world who know how much Sam had loved that damn thing, and he would’ve never, ever, done something so crazy as tracking down an identical blanket just because Sam was feeling sentimental. Sam couldn’t imagine how many stores Gadreel had had to comb through in order to find it. It had just seemed like a thing that was not necessarily-- friend like.

He remembered the way Gadreel’s hands had felt on his waist and shivered slightly.

He most certainly did not throw himself at the angel like some teenage girl. Gadreel had done a sweet thing and Sam had given him a hug. That was all. A hug.

He reloaded the gun again and noticed his hands were trembling.

It was just ridiculous. This whole thing. Gadreel was an angel. Sure, for a while there, he’d spent a lot of time with Sam, but he had also promised to keep an eye on him just in case Sam wasn’t completely healed. Which Sam clearly was. Healed, fine, ready to hit the road again. Now that there was no reason for Gadreel to hover over Sam all the time, the angel had found something else to occupy him. Sam was just reading too much into it. It’s not like he needed Gadreel for anything. Sam was fine. Great, actually. He felt stronger than he had in weeks, his muscles were finally starting to listen to him, and he was looking forward to hunting again. He wasn’t spending every moment of every goddamned day wondering what Gadreel was doing because that would be stupid. Getting attached to an angel would probably be one of the dumbest things he’s ever done, and boy, that was long list to top.

So he was gonna stop thinking about it.

And he did. For a total of eleven minutes, he didn’t think about Gadreel or much of anything. Then Kevin showed up, clutching one of Dean’s cell phones.

\--

“No, Sam.”

Gadreel shrank further down in his seat. He knew the expression on Sam’s face and Sam was angry. He’d started off just frustrated, the faint wrinkle in between his eyes giving him away. But now the wrinkle was gone, Sam’s face uncommonly smooth, slight tightness forming around his lips. Dean was making him angry, and while Gadreel could understand why, he still wished he could somehow stop it. Angry Sam was an unhappy Sam, and for some unexplainable reason, whenever Sam was unhappy, Gadreel found himself upset as well.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Sam said.

He never raised his voice when he was angry, instead, he gave off every appearance of being even calmer than before. That was another main difference between his frustration and his anger. When frustrated, Sam was not above raising his voice to make his point. But when he was angry, his tone lowered, became deeper, colder. Angry Sam Winchester was a dangerous Sam Winchester.

“You’re barely out of sick bed. You’re not gonna go chasing Abaddon with us.”  
“I’ve been out of ‘sick bed’ for a week now. Actually, I’m probably in better shape than you are.”  
“Right,” Dean said, “sure you are.”  
“I am. And what the hell are you gonna do by yourself?”  
“I’ll have Cas with me.”

Sam shook his head,  
“No offense Cas, but that’s not comforting at all.”  
“None taken,” Castiel said lightly, hands wrapped around a coffee mug.

Gadreel could not understand how Castiel could be so unaffected by this argument. He must have witnessed great many of them to be so nonchalant.

“Cas and I can watch each other’s backs. I can’t be looking out for both of you.”  
“So leave Cas here and take me instead.”  
“No, Sam.”  
“Are you really gonna sit there and pretend that you can stop me?”

“I could--“ Gadreel paused, three sets of eyes turning his way at once.

He swallowed heavily and went on,  
“I could come too? I can... watch Sam’s back? If that would help.”

Sam smiled at him, a smile so wide Gadreel nearly swallowed his tongue.

Dean did not smile,  
“There’s no need for you to come. Either one of you, that’s what I’ve been fucking saying, me and Cas can handle it.”

Castiel leaned back in the chair,  
“It’s not a bad idea. All four of us? If those three military vessels are all the demons she has with her, then we’re bound to come out on top.”  
Dean gaped at him,  
“Dude, what the fuck? We had a plan.”  
“I’m sorry but this makes more sense. I would rather have a-- an angel with us than not. We’ve gotten no closer to figuring out how to kill Abaddon. It would be safer for all of us if we hit her with force and numbers instead of counting on the element of surprise. Which, in all honesty, may not work.”

“That’s settled then,” Sam said, getting up, “I’m gonna go load up on weapons.”

Sensing that the last thing he should be doing is waiting for Dean Winchester to find words to express his fury, Gadreel stood up too.  
“I will go... meditate. To prepare. Excuse me.”

\--

It all went wrong so quickly.

Dean had cornered him outside the car, one finger forcefully digging into Gadreel’s chest, a gesture that was no doubt meant to be threatening.  
“If Sammy gets hurt, you’re dead. Understand? I’m trusting you to keep an eye on him. Don’t fuck it up.”  
“I will not fuck it up.”

But then of course, he fucked it up.

\--

So maybe Sam had been a little distracted to start with.

Just a little.

After all, he hadn’t really seen Gadreel properly in a couple of days. Sharing the back seat with him, their knees almost touching, it was just... distracting.

There was his proximity as they explored the abandoned town. Gadreel’s hand on his elbow when his foot caught on a loose board in the diner. Sam didn’t even technically trip, he’d only stumbled. Slightly. Gadreel’s almost casual shift to stand in front of Sam when the gunfire caught them off guard.

It was familiar but at the same time, it wasn’t. Him and Dean, they had this rhythm when they hunted together, a rhythm perfected over years of watching each other, moving around each other. Sam had always looked at it as sort of a magnetic pull and push, not that he’d ever say it to Dean. But he’d always known which way Dean would go and vice versa. Knowing this has saved them both multiple times.

With Gadreel, Sam was the focus. He was the magnet that Gadreel seemed to rotate around. His body moved with Sam’s, angled with Sam’s, becoming both a personal weapon and a shield. It didn’t matter that this was why he’d come, to ‘watch Sam’s back.’ It was strange and different and it continuously threw Sam off balance, made him feel clumsy and out of place. When Dean sent the angel off with Tracy, Sam found himself faintly relieved.

It should’ve been easy, taking out three demons. With or without an angel. But one of them had gotten himself a sniper rifle and settled on one the upper floors, effectively blocking them from all escape routes. Somewhere between the two alleys, they had lost Cas. Sam couldn’t see where Dean was trapped, but he could hear him shooting back, as if the bullets would make a difference.

Next to him, Irv clutched the useless rifle, breathing hard.  
“Hand me that toothpick, and you and Dean and Cas, you beat feet outta here.”  
“What?”  
“I’m going out there alone. I’ll buy you as much time as I can.”  
“Irv, that’s death.”  
“Yeah, well, it's what I've got coming. It's my fault, Sam. I was... in some dive and I was sloppy, and lonely, and I met some girl. And next thing I know, I'm strapped to some bed, and she's twisting things that ain't supposed to be twisted...”  
“‘She’ who?”

But he didn’t have to ask. He knew before Irv said it, he could see it.

“Abaddon. I gave 'em up. Pete, Tracy, I gave 'em all up. So you hand me that blade, and you let me do what I gotta do, or so help me—“  
The bullet hit him right below the collar bone, blood spraying over dirt and brick.

Sam acted on instinct, emptying a clip in the direction of the sniper to buy himself a few moments. He rushed across the road and back to the diner, the only stable cover within a running distance. Promptly, he tripped over the same loose board and crashed through the door, landing on his knees and elbows with force he would definitely feel later. He had a moment to be grateful that the demon knife was still in his hand before an army boot landed on his wrist, snapping all the small bones.

\--

There were three bullets, three hot chunks of steel, embedded deep in the right side of his chest. The dull roar in his ears was just the vessel, reacting to being wounded, the complicated suit of flesh and bone attempting to knit itself without his help. In passing, he saw the older hunter whose name he had already dismissed, lying still in a puddle of blood. Beyond the next alley was Abaddon. He could smell her, the rot and filth of her presence coating his mouth.

He would be lying if he said that he did not feel drawn to it. His Father might have intended him as a protector, but Gadreel had been built a warrior. This was a battle and she was the enemy. Still, the frantic beating of his borrowed heart, the shivering fear so unfamiliar to his kind, it had nothing to do with the Knight of Hell. Even Dean’s cry of pain, echoing down the abandoned street, did not affect him. His grace was vibrating, pulsing. He wondered if this is what it felt like, to be inside Dean Winchester when Sam was in danger. This shrill and furious earthquake of thoughts and feelings he could not control. If yes, then he owed the man an apology.

The diner door shattered in front of him. It would have been easy to let his grace loose, a quick death for any demon. Except Sam was there, slumped in a corner, the scent of his blood thick and strong. His pulse weak, his wrist bent in an unnatural angle, legs folded under him, as if he had been trying to make himself smaller. It would have been easy to let his grace loose. Instead, he tore through the demon vessels, snapping bones like ocean shells. Trapped them inside their meat suits so they could feel the pain, and burned them slowly, as slowly as he dared, straining to hear Sam’s heartbeat over their death throes.

He abandoned their scorched shells, wondering why it did not feel satisfying. Why the smell of burnt flesh did not taste like justice.

Behind Sam’s head, blood dripped down the wall. His hair was matted in it. It saturated the back of his brown jacket, turning it black. His face was surprisingly cool under Gadreel’s fingers as he let his grace loose for the second time, a soft touch instead of the hammer. He could heal Sam and Sam would recover, but knowing this brought him no relief. Because he would never forget Sam’s blood on the dusty floor, Sam being hurt when Gadreel had promised to protect him.

\--

The ride back was silent.

Dean’s initial burst of fury was quickly tampered by Castiel, who did not hesitate to remind him that he had been the one to send Gadreel away. After detailed reassurance that Sam would be fine, despite the blood loss, Dean turned on the radio and blocked all possibilities of further discussion. They were both hurt. Dean’s shoulder looked to be dislocated and Castiel’s nose was bleeding. Neither one asked to be healed and Gadreel did not offer.

Sam’s blood-matted head rested in his lap. Hidden from the view, Gadreel’s hand clutched the saturated brown coat until it was dry and permanently wrinkled, and still, he could not convince himself to let go.

Dean had told him to protect Sam. Then Dean had sent him away. He had come along to watch out for Sam but he had also been charged with protecting someone else. Perhaps there had been a way to accomplish both, but his mind would not supply it. He had abandoned Sam to protect the girl and Sam had gotten hurt. If he had stayed behind to protect Sam, the girl would have gotten hurt.

He imagined walking into the diner, seeing her crumpled in the corner, black hair matted with blood, and with cool certainty, understood that he would have rather seen her hurt. He would have rather seen her dead. Not just her but Dean, Castiel, every human and every angel, every creature that walks or crawls the earth. This world his Father had created could shrivel up and die. Gadreel would rather see the planet crack like an egg. There had been no true beauty in it until Sam had taught him where to look. He had known no such thing as true kindness, joy or peace, until Sam had shown it to him. And nothing, not his mission or his Father’s fury or the contempt of his Brothers and Sisters, nothing mattered when Sam Winchester existed.

He had always thought that the love he felt for Heaven, for his Father, was the only love that existed. All the love he was capable of. But how pale and lifeless it seemed now, when compared to this. To Sam’s fragile cheek resting on his thigh. The faint cobweb of blue veins against the pale eyelid. Was this the love Castiel felt when he had rebelled against Heaven? This overwhelming fear and joy, wrapped up so tightly in something so fragile?

For the first time, Gadreel considered that this may not be redemption. That this may be the last consequence of his fall, the final sin, the step from which there is no return.

And then he realized that it did not matter.


	6. Chapter 6

“I would like a moment of your time please.”  
“And moment’s all you got,” Dean said, shoving the plate in the microwave.  
“It’s about your brother.”  
“What about Sam? Is he ok? You said he was doing fine.”

Recognizing panic right beneath the man’s exterior, Gadreel hurried to reassure him,  
“He is fine. He still needs rest and plenty of nutrition, but he is doing very well.”  
“Then why are you here?”

The microwave beeped stealing Dean’s focus, and faced with the back of the man’s head, Gadreel found an additional bit of courage he’d been lacking.  
“I believe I am in love with your brother.”

Dean froze. His head tilted slightly and he turned, the expression on his face cool and composed.

“Come again?”  
“I believe I am in love with your brother. My understanding of human traditions is somewhat limited due to my imprisonment, but I think-- as his closest relative and the only family figure that could be considered a guardian--“  
“A guardian?”  
“--you should be notified of my intentions.”  
“Your intentions?”  
“Yes. As far as Sam is concerned.”

Gadreel watched the man’s fists tighten.

“I know you didn’t just use the word ‘intentions’ in the same sentence with my brother.”  
“Is that not the correct word? I have researched this, and the dictionary--“  
“You do not have intentions towards my brother,” Dean roared.

“What’s going on? Dean why are you yelling?”

Gadreel had never been happier to see Castiel.

“I may have used the wrong words,” Gadreel said quickly, “there are so many that have double meanings and I--“  
“I am going to kill you,” Dean said in an eerily calm tone of voice, very much at odds with every tense muscle in his body.

Castiel shifted to stand in between them,  
“Dean, what is this about?”  
“He says he is in love with Sam,” Dean said tightly and Gadreel suddenly understood.

It was not the wording Dean had objected to.

It was Gadreel himself.

Castiel scoffed, confirming it,  
“I doubt that, you must’ve misunderstood. Gadreel?”

His stomach tightened painfully,  
“I am in love with Sam Winchester.”  
“Stop saying that,” Dean growled, taking a threatening step forward.

Castiel restrained him with one hand on his shoulder, but he’d turned to face Gadreel now, making it obvious whose side he was on.

A memory drifted up, unbidden, of his quick and painful trial, the eyes of his brothers and sisters judging him, the faint traces of disgust on their faces.

“I believe it may be time for you to move on,” Castiel said slowly, as if attempting to soften the blow.

And there it was. The words he had expected to hear so many times that they should not have come as a surprise. And yet somehow, they did.

“I mean him no harm,” he said.  
“You let Lucifer into the world, you dipshit,” Dean said, “You’re the human kind’s first fuck up. How fucking dare you?”

Castiel’s fingers were digging into Dean’s shoulder, the pressure turning them white,  
“Have you told Sam how you feel?”  
“No, the book, there’s a book about-- it says I should speak to his father first but Sam does not have one so I assumed I should speak with Dean--“  
“You assumed wrong,” Dean roared again, stepping closer despite Castiel’s restraining grip.

Gadreel took a careful step backwards, feeling the kitchen counter at his back. He had expected this or some version of it, it would have been naive not to. But even though he had expected it, it hurt. The way his wings being marked had hurt. The way his exile, his imprisonment had hurt.

“Thank you,” Castiel said, “for keeping this to yourself. It will spare Sam discomfort, I’m sure. We are... grateful for your help. I am in your debt. But I do have to ask that you leave.”  
“I don’t under--“  
“I don’t want you anywhere near my brother.”

Castiel latched on to the man with two hands, and still, Dean managed to come uncomfortably close, his hand fisting Gadreel’s shirt,  
“I don’t want you speaking to my brother, looking at my brother, I don’t want you breathing the same air as him, ever again. Get out of the damn Bunker or I’ll fucking throw you out.”

“Dean!”

Gadreel’s heart sunk. Sam was standing at the kitchen entrance, his eyes wide, his hand holding on to the frame as if the frame was the only thing keeping him up.

“Sammy, you shouldn’t be out of bed.”

Dean’s suddenly gentle tone was worse than any blow he could have delivered. Gadreel would have rather Dean hit him. He would have rather had man tear him from piece to piece, than have to hear the concern in his voice and know that Dean meant every word he said. Not because he hated Gadreel, but because he loved his brother.

“Don’t call me that,” Sam said but his voice was soft and distracted.

Dean had let go of Gadreel’s shirt the moment Sam spoke up, yet Sam seemed focused on that spot, the small clump of wrinkles Dean’s grip had created.

“Sam,” Castiel said, “Dean is right. You shouldn’t have attempted the stairs by yourself. One of us--“  
“I’m not a damn invalid,” Sam snapped.

He extended his hand towards Gadreel,  
“Come.”

It was like a lifeline, yet Gadreel only gaped at him, suddenly unsure of everything.

“Gadreel was leaving,” Dean said tightly.  
“No, he wasn’t,” Sam added in the same tone of voice, “Gadreel is not leaving. This is not a discussion. You were acting like a child, Castiel was overstepping and Gadreel is coming with me. Come on,” he said again, the hand still extended.

His entire body numb with something he could not name, Gadreel closed his fingers around Sam’s and let himself be pulled out of the kitchen.

 

The deathly silence they left in their wake followed him across the bunker and up the stairs, until he and Sam were in the safety of Sam’s bedroom. The click of the door cut it in half and he could now finally feel his own heart beat, alarmingly fast.

Sam seemed at a loss once the door was closed, leaning against it and crossing his arms. It was a posture Gadreel immediately recognized, but it had never been directed at him. The idea that Sam thought Gadreel would hurt him in any way was distressing.

“Did you mean it?” he said finally, his gaze directed somewhere past Gadreel’s shoulder, “What you said to Dean, did you mean it?”  
“I spoke the truth,” Gadreel said.

Did Sam think he would lie?

Sam’s arms tightened, “I wanna hear it.”

There was a heavy lump of air in Gadreel’s throat and no amount of swallowing would dislodge it.  
“I am in love with you, Sam Winchester.”

Sam closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. His expression shifted into something bordering on pain.  
“Why?” Sam asked, “Why me?”

Why? Of all the things he imagined Sam saying at this moment, that was not one of them.

He struggled to come up with simple words that would best explain it, but none were forthcoming. He could write books on this question, each one devoted to a small part of the whole that is Sam Winchester. He could fill libraries with these books, spend centuries listing every smile, every gaze, every facet of Sam, and never even come close to answering that question fully.

Sam was still waiting, and with each moment Gadreel could almost feel him slipping further away.

“I knew you for Lucifer’s true vessel, the first time I saw you.”

Sam flinched as if Gadreel had struck him, but now that he had started speaking, he was afraid to stop.  
“I knew the strength of you, the determination, the stubbornness. I could see it in your bones, the only man in the existence capable of-- containing something so powerful. I thought you were beautiful, from that first moment, but you-- you are so much more, so much I did not expect. Kindness and loyalty and courage, compassion and humility, everything-- everything good my Father had wanted to give to his children, I have found all of it in you. Lucifer himself, God’s favorite, most beautiful child could have never, ever been worthy of you. I am not worthy of you. I know this, I understand it. Your brother is right. I am, as he says, the ‘human kind’s first fuck up,’ and you-- I had no expectations, you have to understand, I only wanted to find a way to-- show you. That you are very much loved.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath, the lump in his throat growing larger,  
“I did not mean to upset you.”

 

In the short silence that followed he sensed more than saw Sam step closer, and was surprised to feel warm fingers wrap around his own again.

His hands were shaking. He was unfamiliar with his vessel’s reaction to all this, the increased heart rate, the perspiration, the enormous tightness in his chest that only seemed to grow heavier. There was so much he still did not understand, including Sam’s hand holding his, Sam’s thumb gently caressing his wrist.

“Tell me again,” Sam said quietly, so close now that Gadreel could feel their forearms brushing above their entwined fingers, “Tell me you love me.”

His eyes seemed enormous in the gloom, wide black pools in the middle of all the green.

“I love you,” Gadreel said, not sure why he was whispering.

Sam’s breath cut him off, brushing against his mouth only for a moment before his lips followed.

Gadreel stood frozen, feeling the soft press of Sam’s lips, the tightening of Sam’s fingers around his own. He was supposed to do something, he knew that, but suddenly everything was blank and still, the time had stopped and there was just Sam, the scent of Sam, the feel of Sam.

Then Sam was pulling back and the world rushed back in fast, too fast, harsh and overwhelming. He knew from some deep, dusty memory, a memory which didn’t even belong to him that he’d done something wrong here, or that he failed to do something, and if he let Sam pull away, he may never get him back. Panic jerked in his chest and he leaned forward slightly, following Sam’s mouth until it was pressed against his own again. It was awkward this time, he knew it was awkward, he may be inexperienced but he could tell their mouths didn’t line up right now and for a moment he despaired what a fragile thing this was, an instant of time in which he may have just lost everything. Sam tilted his head slightly, shaky exhale burning across Gadreel’s skin and just like that, they fit perfectly again.

Stupid, unexplainable gratitude clogged Gadreel’s throat. He wanted ask Sam to be patient with him, to tell him how little he actually knew about this, any of this. All those memories of someone else’s life could have never prepared him for this, for the heat of Sam’s mouth moving against his own, the whisper of his breath so loud in the silence, how each and every one made it harder and harder for Gadreel to draw a breath of his own. Instead, he reached up carefully with his free hand, fingers trembling against Sam’s cheek, the curve of his jaw, the smooth line of his neck. He felt Sam grip his shirt and inch himself forward, one foot sliding in between Gadreel’s. So slowly and somehow all at once, most of Sam pressing against him, knee brushing, stomach muscles quivering, heart beating wildly against Gadreel’s chest.

Suddenly, he seemed more exquisite than ever, so terrifyingly breakable, all that fine-spun balance of flesh and blood, so delicate and uncertain. He untangled their fingers before he knew he would do so, wrapping an arm around him to pull him even closer, to envelop him entirely. His fingers tangled in all that soft hair, into the crisp scent of green apples that he would forever associate with Sam and this moment. Sam’s lips parted and a new type of heat struck Gadreel somewhere at the base of his spinal cord, whip sharp and nearly as painful. Their tongues entwined much like their hands had earlier, except this was slick and wet and Gadreel felt it from the shiver in his legs all the way to his scalp, every inch in between burning, burning furiously and desperately needing something he didn’t understand, something he had no words for.

Sam made a sound, deep in his throat. His hands latched on to Gadreel’s jacket, pushing it off his shoulders and Gadreel let him, not caring what happened as long as Sam’s mouth stayed where it was. The jacket dropped on the floor and Sam immediately latched on to the sweatshirt, pushing it up, exposing skin Gadreel had come to think of as his own. This time the kiss was broken as they both struggled to pull the sweatshirt off and Gadreel finally saw Sam’s face again, cheeks flushed, mouth red, eyes so dark they were nearly black. It was incomprehensible that the man could have grown more beautiful in a matter of moments, yet he had. Gadreel wanted to tell him so, he struggled to find the right words for this feeling, this awe tangled with bone aching need. Sam smiled, his hand curving over Gadreel’s bare skin, burning across it as if he were the one with the grace powerful enough to mark Gadreel forever.

Maybe he was, maybe Gadreel would find Sam’s fingerprints all over his skin afterwards, seared into the flesh.

“Come on,” Sam said softly, steering him towards the bed.

Something was wrong with Gadreel’s depth perception because he nearly tripped twice over nothing but his own feet. Sam didn’t seem to notice or mind. He sat down and pulled Gadreel with him, their mouths meeting again, the pressure higher now, tongues moving faster, building up to that same terrifying thing Gadreel didn’t understand. Sam kept tugging gently until he was lying down and Gadreel found himself hovering over the man, knees digging into the mattress on either side of him, arms shaking, hands fisting the bedspread. He felt the calluses on Sam’s hands from long hours of gun practice, felt them scrape carefully over his stomach, his chest. Every tendon, every muscle in his body felt too tight, like he could snap at any moment. He felt powerful and afraid, both at once, and it was the fear that made him pause.

“Sam... I don’t-- I don’t know what to do.”

It was a shock to hear his own voice, torn and ragged. The words pulsed in his throat, threatening to choke him.

Sam reached up, fingertips skimming over Gadreel’s cheekbones, his mouth,  
“This,” he said softly, “this is perfect... just, I wanna feel you, I want...”

He was pulling him down again and Gadreel was following because it was impossible not to, blanketing Sam’s body with his own. Sam’s hips pushed up and it was the first time Sam had touched him multiplied by a thousand, the fire in his spine suddenly ripping through his bones, roaring in his ears. He ground down against him to feel it again and Sam whimpered, fingers digging into Gareel’s shoulder. His other hand cupped the back of Gadreel’s head, their foreheads meeting.  
“Yes,” he gasped, hot breath washing over Gadreel’s face, “just like that... it feels, oh God it’s so...”

Gadreel ground against him and whatever Sam was going to say dissolved into a moan. His mouth caught Gadreel’s again with none of its earlier finesse, all frantic slip and slide of lips, scrape of teeth, hips rising to meet Gadreel’s again and again. Gadreel swallowed his moans, each one causing pleasure to rise and recede, a slow pulse of ocean waves. He was burning now, his skin threatening to slit open because it seemed impossible to contain all this heat and still stay whole. He wrapped his arms around Sam, curving around him, pressing him into the mattress. He wanted to feel him without the barrier of the clothes, all that soft skin and muscle. He wanted to stay exactly like this, till the end of time, pleasure cresting higher and higher, he wanted it to never end.

Sam’s lips slid over his cheek, teeth scraping over his jaw, sinking into the flesh of his shoulder. That small pinprick of pain tripled, vibrated across his body and he heard himself make a sound, something broken and helpless.

“Tell me again,” Sam panted, his hips rising up to meet him “tell me.”

If Sam had asked him anything else, Gadreel would have never found the words. His mind was fractured, unsteady, flooded in pleasure bordering on pain.

But the words came out on their own, wrecked like the rest of him,  
“I love you Sam-- I love you--”

Sam groaned, arching against him, his entire body shuddering in Gadreel’s arms. Gadreel felt him, felt the throbbing heat spill between them despite the layers in the way, and it was exhilarating, obliterating. Sam’s short nails dug into Gadreel’s back, hard enough to break skin. The pleasure crested again with the pain, high enough to make him cry out, white hot and sharp enough to shred. It did not recede. It went on and on until he thought it would destroy him, it would tear him into millions of pieces, moments lasting years, centuries of pleasure he never could have imagined, never knew existed.

When it stopped, it left him blank and lost and shivering. His eyes were wet. His nose clogged. Sam’s hand was brushing the back of his head gently. He could feel Sam’s heartbeat against his chest again.

“It’s ok,” Sam’s breath ghosted over his ear.

Only then he realized he was whimpering quietly, face buried in Sam’s neck.

\--

Afterwards there was silence.

Sam waited until his breathing evened out, until Gadreel’s heart stopped threatening to beat its way out of his chest, calm settling over them both. They had shifted slightly, but most of Gadreel’s weight was still pressing him into the mattress, arms still wrapped tightly around Sam’s body. It should be suffocating but instead it was strangely soothing. Gadreel’s forehead was resting against Sam’s temple, his breath warming Sam’s neck. He was still fully dressed, his flannel uncomfortably twisted around him, jeans damp and messy, but somehow it still felt intimate, being wrapped up in Gadreel’s arms. More intimate than any of his recent encounters.

The last time he felt like this was too long ago for comparison, so long that the memory was fractured and faded. It had been years since he recalled Jess’s bright smile, her curls against his cheek and her breathless giggle against his skin. He thought that, maybe, it had been the last time he’d truly felt loved.

So he waited, putting off the moment he would have to move, untangle himself from Gadreel’s grip. Somewhere in the Bunker, Dean was probably fantasizing about breaking Gadreels’s jaw. Crowley was sitting in the dark basement, plotting his escape. Abaddon was still on the loose, all the more dangerous now that their secret weapon was no longer a secret. The Gates of Heaven were still sealed. Sam still felt dizzy from being knocked around and nearly bleeding out only hours before. And despite it all, he found himself smiling.

He brushed his fingers through Gadreel’s hair, nails scraping gently across his scalp. Gadreel sighed and nuzzled at Sam’s jaw, a tiny gesture filled with so much affection that Sam’s breath caught in his throat.

He thought he knew himself well enough, that he knew what his body wanted. Somewhere in the back of his head there was a list he never deviated from, borne from more unpleasant experiences than the pleasant ones. A clear set of rules for all his lovers, male or female. Ruby had broken some of them because she knew she could, that he needed her too badly to put up a fight. And later, in the Cage, Lucifer had broken them all. He swore to himself it would never happen again. Feeling vulnerable and powerless, knowing his partner could break him in an instant, it had never been a source of pleasure for Sam. His whole life, all those stronger than him had used that strength to hurt him. Only a few months ago, the thought of letting down his barriers for an angel, even one as kind as Gadreel, would have filled him with terror.

Everything he thought he knew was wrong.

It wasn’t just those three words, as much as they had affected Sam, or the desperate way Gadreel had repeated them and probably would over and over again, every time Sam asked to hear them. It was the way his hands had shook, the way he’d tripped over his feet, the sounds he’d made. The lost expression on his face when he realized that Sam wanted something he didn’t know how to give. A creature powerful enough to slaughter three demons in a blink of an eye, whimpering against Sam’s shoulder like a wounded animal. Giving himself over completely. Making Sam feel both vulnerable and powerful at once.

They would have to talk about this, or some aspect of it at least. There was hardly a precedent for a human and an angel, especially an angel occupying a vessel with its soul still intact. Would Gadreel be forced to return to Heaven once the Gates were open again? Did he want to return? Would he leave Sam behind?

No. He didn’t want to think about that. Not here and now when everything was still fragile.

He twisted his head slightly, wanting to feel Gadreel’s cheek against his own, to be closer to him even though they were already as close as they could be. Gadreel’s breath ghosted over his ear, making him shiver. The arms around him tightened, Gadreel’s lips dragging over his cheek until they found his mouth, the press of them sweet and surprisingly chaste.

Something shattered below them and Sam jerked, eyes flying open. Dean was yelling. Gadreel pulled back, his grip loosening. Poor Castiel was probably getting the brunt of Dean’s fury and a small part of Sam, that part which had spent years diffusing Dean’s outbursts, wanted to rush downstairs and fix it. Except that he wouldn’t. This was one fury Dean would have to work through on his own.

Still, he untangled himself from Gadreel’s embrace. Another few minutes lying there and his boxers would be able to stand up on their own.

“Wait here,” he said softly, just on the off chance Gadreel decided it was time for him to leave.

If it was up to Sam, he would keep the angel in his room indefinitely. Preferably behind closed doors. Maybe tied to the bed too.

He blushed furiously while making his way to the bathroom, glad that his back was turned and Gadreel could not see it.

He cleaned himself up quickly, chucking the boxers in the hamper and hissing at the cold water. Tugging the jeans back on with no underwear reminded him of the old days, living on the road, always short on boxers or socks or clean shirts. Sniffing things in the various duffle bags and trying to decide if he would rather wear dirty socks or no socks at all. Wetting a clean washcloth under now warm water, he felt the zipper scraping against sensitive skin and smiled to himself. He’d gotten spoiled at the bunker. He’d never acknowledged it before but it was a nice thing, having a dresser full of clean undershirts and boxers. It was a happy thing.

Back in the bedroom, Gadreel was sitting up at the edge of the bed, still naked from the waist up, the soft lamplight revealing thousands of freckles scattered over his shoulders and arms. He looked lost and uncertain, as if Sam had abandoned him. Sam smiled and was relieved to see him smile back, even if he still looked unsure.

“Stand up,” Sam said and Gadreel obeyed without a question.

He said nothing as Sam sunk to his knees and unbuttoned his jeans, pulling them down. He let Sam clean him up, his breath stuttering, muscles twitching under Sam’s touch. He was beautiful. Sam wanted to lean in and taste all that skin, drag his tongue over the soft inner thigh, map all the freckles with his mouth, wanted it so badly that his mouth watered. Instead, he tugged Gadreel’s boxers off like he’d done his own and threw them into the corner of the room. There were now two pieces of laundry that would not be going into the joint pile. He could just imagine Dean’s face if he found them. He’d probably have a heart attack.

Gadreel lifted his feet obediently, let Sam pull his jeans back up and button them. The washcloth went flying into the corner too and Sam rubbed his hands on his jeans, suddenly at a loss now that the task was done.

“Thank you,” Gadreel said, sounding so ridiculously sincere over such a small thing that Sam felt his face heat up again.

“Do I have to leave now?” he asked.  
“What? No,” Sam bit his tongue and tried again, “I mean, not unless you want to. Do you want to?”  
“No,” Gadreel said quickly, “but is Dean-- is he going to be angry?”  
“No more than he already is,” Sam said, “and it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s none of his business.”

Gadreel sat back down slowly, eyes still locked on Sam,  
“I don’t blame him for wanting me to leave.”  
“It’s not up to him. I don’t want you to go.”

Gadreel nodded, the gratitude obvious in every line of his face,  
“I can still be useful to you. Against Abaddon. I can protect you. I know I did poorly today but I will not let myself be distracted again--“  
“No, that’s not-- not because you’re useful. I want you to stay. For me.”

Suddenly tired and now more than a little dizzy, he sat down next to Gadreel,  
“We’ll figure it out, Dean and Abaddon and-- everything else, ok? Just-- don’t leave.”

They sat in silence for a while, side by side, listening to Dean’s voice rising and falling below them. Whatever Dean was going on about, it definitely wasn’t one sided. Castiel was still there, probably trying to reason with him. It was a common occurrence; sometimes it seemed to be the only way they communicated for days on end. But for the first time, Sam felt no resentment for their peculiar relationship. Just a vague fondness laced with amusement.

“Can I see your wings again? Do you mind?”

\--

For the second time, he found himself watching the patterns his grace made on the faded carpet. The mattress had dipped behind him where Sam had crawled up, but now the room was still and silent. If it were not for Sam’s soft breathing, he would think himself alone. Alone with his broken wings and his borrowed skin. It may have not belonged to him before, this contraption of flesh and bone, but it had become his under Sam’s hands. Sam had wanted it. Sam had touched it and pressed his mouth against it, marked it with his nails and teeth.

He shuddered when soft fingers brushed against the bottom of his spine.

He heard Sam’s sharp breath and spoke before the man could ask,  
“You are not hurting me Sam.”

“Good,” Sam said simply, his hand flattening, the palm hot.

It traveled over his spine, over the burning stretch where his shoulder blades arched. He felt his wings shiver in anticipation, the unfamiliar comfort of touch making the pain bearable. Fingertips brushed against feathers, smoothing them down carefully.

“When I was a baby,” Sam said, “my mom used to say the angels were watching over me.”

Mary Winchester had been mistaken.

Long before she sang her second son lullabies, long before he was a faint spark of life quickening in her body, Sam had been chosen to become a warrior and to die a warrior’s death at the hands of Heaven. No angels watched over him. None of Heaven’s protection had been given him. The almighty Court of Heaven had decided his fate before his brother was out of swaddling clothes. They Marked him as an abomination and left him no path but that of pain and fear. They gave him no weapons except those they could not take away, the weapons given to all human beings by their Creator.

Kindness and empathy. Compassion. Loyalty and courage.

Free Will.

Sam Winchester took what he was given and defeated the Heaven itself.

“I would watch out for you,” he said softly, “If you will have me, I would be yours.”

Warm breath slid in between Gadreel’s shoulders. He closed his eyes and felt Sam’s mouth mark him again, in the place that burned, where the roots of his tainted wings lay deep beneath the flesh.

It felt like a blessing.

**Author's Note:**

> Soundtrack for the fic can be found [here.](http://8tracks.com/nishkaflower/sinner-s-angel)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Art] Sinner's Angel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3319502) by [Nonexistenz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonexistenz/pseuds/Nonexistenz)
  * [Sinner's Angel: Blanket Pattern](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4420544) by [MaadSkittlez29](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaadSkittlez29/pseuds/MaadSkittlez29)




End file.
